Foxhunt
by firstbookscape
Summary: Zorro may have met his match when he tangles with a vicious land owner who is using slave labor on his ranch. (A re-posting of my 1st Zorro story written 20 years ago. It has gone through many edits & some early authoring mistakes have been deleted. I am sure there are more; just let me know. Thanks to Icywaters for advice on chapters and for Eugene & others for beta-ing.)
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Eyes narrowed against the intense glare of the sun, a lone vaquero perused a shady trail leading from the El Camino Real. The King's Highway, while conducive for speedy travel, had very little in the way of amenities, at least in this part of California. There was little shade, no inns, except at one-day intervals, and very few haciendas where comfort would be assured. With those thoughts in mind, the vaquero turned up the trail toward the promise of comfortable shade and a cool spring, tugging gently on the lead rope of the horse behind.

The vaquero, Diego de la Vega, was actually a caballero, a gentleman of the wealthy class. He was a young man in the prime of his life, very tall, with dark hair and a handsome face highlighted by intelligent hazel brown eyes, a small trim mustache and a quick smile. Being the only son of one of the wealthiest landowners near the Pueblo de Los Angeles, many señoritas considered him a good catch if he would only reciprocate their advances. What they didn't know was that Diego had a secret. He was also El Zorro, an identity he had assumed after being called home from studies in Spain by his father. It had been the only way he could fight against a tyrannical comandante.

In order to allay suspicions that he might be Zorro, Diego had developed an air of pacifism. He took to reading even more than he usually did, playing more music, and writing poetry, much to the dismay of his father, Alejandro. Once his father had discovered his dual identity, they worked closely to help the oppressed.

Diego examined the rocky, uneven trail as he slowly made his way toward the hint of greenery in the distance. Suddenly, he found himself staring at two well armed vaqueros. They had appeared like ghosts. Diego prided himself on his keen awareness of everything around him, but obviously he had missed something, or else these vaqueros were very, very good.

"Buenos Tardes, señores," Diego said simply, and then waited for the men to speak.

"Señor, you must turn back," the older of the two commanded, without any preamble of civility.

"I have been in Monterey on business and am traveling to the Pueblo de Los Angeles. It has been four long, hot, dusty days of riding and I was only seeking a shady and secluded spot to rest my horses and myself, perhaps to camp if there is a spring nearby. I meant no harm, and I certainly did not mean to intrude on anyone's property or business."

The younger man moved his mount a few paces towards Diego's horse, eyeing the intruder with a look of undisguised curiosity. "Señor, you have the look of a vaquero, but the bearing of a caballero. And the horse obviously belongs to a wealthy landowner. Who are you?"

Diego mentally gave the young vaquero several points for being so astute; he had hoped to avoid any attention that a hacendado might attract, since he was traveling alone, and on desolate stretches of highway. "I am connected with the Rancho de la Vega and following the orders of Don Alejandro de la Vega." This was essentially the truth, but there wasn't a chance he was going to divulge any more information until he had a better grasp of this situation. "As for the horse," he added. "It is indeed the property of de la Vega, who decided to take the coach back to Los Angeles. Now tell me, señores, why should I wear out my only horse?" he asked with a knowing smile.

The older man suddenly drew out his pistol and pointed it at Diego. "It does not matter if you are on the business of King Ferdinand himself, turn around and leave immediately, unless you wish Don Alejandro to have to hire a new messenger. You can go back and stay at the Mission of San Luis Obispo de Tolosa or proceed south to Santa Barbara." The speaker was a stocky, darker skinned man, a mestizo, somewhat short in stature, but fully capable of carrying out his threats.

"Manuel," the younger man chided, "there is no need to be so crude. This man does not even appear to be armed, I am sure he will leave quietly."

"To be sure," Diego agreed fervently, "I am certainly not stupid enough to argue with the end of a pistol. If I may be so bold, your patrón must be a man new to California."

"Why is that?" José, the younger vaquero asked, intrigued by the observation.

"Because he offers no hospitality to those traveling near his hacienda, especially during the time of the siesta." Diego replied coolly. "That is customary in California."

"How do you know there is a hacienda nearby?" the older man asked harshly, flustered by Diego's deductions. "And besides, it really does not matter if there is or not, you are trespassing and you must leave, NOW!"

"By the Saints," murmured Diego. "But of course, I will leave," he said more loudly, and turning his horses around, started back down the hill toward the highway. Feeling a peculiar prickling between his shoulder blades, he knew the two men continued to watch his departure. It was best to pretend they had convinced him that leaving was the best course. Naturally their manner and speech gave just the opposite effect. Diego, wary by nature, knew something was not right beyond that mountain pass. It was his intention to find out before he continued on to Los Angeles.

José was puzzled. The man they had turned away could not hide the self-assured air of a caballero. He was no simple messenger, José would bet his next month's wages on that, and assumed the man was not just delivering the fancy horse to his patrón, but that he was the horse's owner, and therefore a patrón himself. _But if the man is a patrón, then why didn't he just insist on spending the night at my employer's hacienda, as was his right?_ the young man thought. Since he was fairly young and this was his first job with a rich hacendado, he shrugged and turned back up the trail behind Manuel.

Chapter 1

Diego rode for almost a quarter of an hour before halting to check one of his horse's shoes for a stone. He listened for any signs of pursuit and looked back up the trail to confirm he wasn't being followed. Remounting, he continued south along the highway, looking for any spot that would afford some shade until the cool of the evening. Soon Diego found a secluded trail with a small stream nearby.

As he rested in the shade of an old oak tree, the caballero wondered if he might possibly be overreacting, but immediately squelched the thought. In the past, he had learned to trust his instincts, and right now his instincts were sending alarm signals.

Diego watched the shimmering waves of overheated air dance off the rocks. Looking up, he saw an eagle floating on the thermals, looking for prey. It was during these quiet times since he left Monterey that he wished Bernardo, his manservant, could have accompanied him, if for no other reason than for company. While Diego was used to being alone at times, he was nevertheless gregarious by nature and on long trips like this, wished he had a traveling companion. He sighed, knowing there was no reason to dwell on that which could not be changed. Bernardo had been stricken with a fever during their stay in Monterey and while the Franciscan priests had assured him the manservant would be completely well within a few days, Diego's father was expecting him back in Los Angeles for an essential meeting of ranchers. The papers he was carrying from the governor's office were an important part of that meeting, and made it impossible for him to wait for Bernardo's complete recovery.

Diego left enough pesos for the manservant to return home by coach. Then he set out alone. By wearing the livery of a hired vaquero instead of his usual flashy wardrobe, he hoped to avoid any incidents on the way home. Diego also brought Bernardo's mare along instead of stabling her in Monterey until they returned. It made sense during this hot season. As one horse tired he would switch horses, instead of having to stop and rest for extended periods of time. Diego traveled late into the evening, and although it wasn't customary, these strategies had helped him to save almost an entire day—until now. He had to admit he was weary from the long ride of the past four days, and he knew the horses were, too.

Watching another eagle join the first in an aerial dance across the clear blue sky, Diego wondered if part of his decision for riding back alone might not be a reaction to the sometimes scathing comments about his lack of courage. He had come to terms with his role as a passive, non-aggressive caballero, but the comments still stung. There were times he wished he could do as Diego de la Vega, what he had done as a child, when he saw what he felt were wrongs being committed. In those days he had the reputation of being hotheaded and quick with his fists. With a shrug, he hobbled the horses while he rested. As he dozed, Diego contemplated why two ranch-hands would have the manner of bandits.

He woke several hours later, when the evening had progressed enough for the air to change from the simmering heat of the late afternoon to the cooler air preceding night. The eagles were gone, but a single red-tailed hawk searched for a late day meal. The raptor reminded him of his duties, and Diego stretched, fed and watered the horses, and had a very light supper from his provisions. By the time he was finished, the sun had set and the campsite was taking on a ghostly aura, with shadows from the trees and rocks combining with the noises of night creatures and the breeze rustling through the top of the tree.

Diego untied one of the coquinillos or saddle bags. In it were a black cape, shirt, pants, sash, hat, bandana, boots, gloves and the mask, which had become famous around Los Angeles and to some extent, Monterey. The sword, he had tied to Tejas' saddle, under the coquinillo, as he seldom wore a blade other than when he was in his guise as Zorro. Swords had no place in the life of the passive Don Diego, even though, before he had returned home, fencing had almost been life itself. When the transformation was complete, the moon looked down on a different man; El Zorro.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Night and Day 1

Zorro decided he would take a chance on finding the mysterious hacienda on foot, even though like most Californianos, he would prefer to ride. A horse would be heard easily on such rocky trails, especially by guards as observant as the two he had already met. He also didn't feel the trip would be too far. The outlaw traveled along the trail in the general direction he felt the rancho must lay.

After a walk of about an hour in the semi-darkness, he came over a ridge and looked down on a long, but narrow valley. In the waxing moonlight he saw a modest hacienda, with several outbuildings, probably stables and storage sheds. A little beyond were several smaller buildings near the fields. Zorro surmised that those were the peons' quarters. He was about to start down into the valley when he heard the sound of a horse just to his left on a different path and he saw a patrolling vaquero. Trailing behind the horseman was a large wolfish-looking dog. Zorro noted, with gratitude to the Saints above, that the breeze was traveling from the valley up the ridge so the dog was not able to get a scent from him.

There were few dogs on the de la Vega estate for work and none for pleasure. His father didn't care that much for them, claiming their barking was a detriment to a good night's sleep. Diego had never had a desire for one either. This hacendado would only have big dogs for guard duty if he were hiding something.

Zorro considered this development and realized he would have to be very careful of the direction of the wind and of his movements. Men were easy to fool; dogs' senses were not. There were most likely others posted around the perimeter of the valley.

When the guard was far enough away to suit him, Zorro quietly slipped down the trail toward the hacienda. So far everything was quiet and remained so until he had reached the main house. There he heard the voice of an angry man and the sound of what seemed to Zorro of someone being slapped. He risked a glance through the window nearest the sound.

"Did I not tell you what I would do to you if you could not get more work from those lazy peons?" the angry man roared at a person cringing on the floor. The man paced like a caged tiger, snarling threats. In the world of rough rancheros, the man might be considered ruggedly handsome. He wore the short, pointed beard of a caballero, and was physically trim, and well-muscled. His language and mannerisms, however, belied his social standing as a patron. He apparently flaunted his power by beating the peons. His violence exuded evil, thought Zorro, who was angered by the brutality of the man against his servant.

Although the peon on the floor was larger than the man slapping him, he was groveling and crying in fear. The patrón grabbed a whip hanging on the wall and flailed the man on the floor, who wailed loudly in pain and terror. The echoing cries reverberated through the night.

"Please, master, I'll do better. Please, master, give me another chance, please," the peon whimpered.

Zorro realized with horror that he was not witnessing the punishing of a rebellious servant, but of a slave. He had heard of places where indentured servants were treated as slaves, but others, like those on the de la Vega rancho were housed, fed and paid salaries. If all the peons were like this poor man, then it was no wonder the valley was so heavily guarded from outsiders. And it was no wonder he had felt the need to investigate.

Zorro crept around the corner of the house and toward the nearest hovel. Like the pads of a large cat, his soft-soled leather boots made no sound, and he only hoped there were no dogs nearby. So far there was no evidence of any down near the main house. Reaching the door of the little house, Zorro heard only the sounds of tired men groaning and snoring in their exhaustion. He also heard footsteps of someone approaching the doorway, and he slipped back to wait. A very young peon shuffled out the door and then sensing another presence, stiffened and turned toward the outlaw. Seeing he had been discovered, Zorro quickly grabbed the young man by the arm and covered his mouth to avoid any outcry.

The outlaw felt the fearful trembling of the boy and tried to reassure him. "Muchacho, if you promise to make no outcry, I will take away my hand," Zorro whispered in his ear. "I only want to ask you a few questions and I promise that I will not harm you." The boy nodded and Zorro withdrew his hand.

"Where were you going this late at night?" Zorro asked quietly.

The young man pointed a trembling finger to a very small building nearby.

"Then by all means continue, but I am trusting you to return without anyone becoming suspicious I am here." The boy nodded and left Zorro without any further sound. The outlaw slipped around the corner of the hovel and awaited the boy's return. The peon returned shortly. "Let us talk here, so we will be away from the door," Zorro whispered. Motioning for the boy to sit down, he made a quick, but thorough perusal of the immediate area, and then joined him.

"What goes on here?" Zorro queried. The young man, who appeared to be only about thirteen, just looked at Zorro without speaking. Soon tears began to roll down the boy's face and quiet sobs racked his small frame. Zorro was a bit taken back by the young man's reaction and put his arm around the boy to comfort him. "Amigo, I am called El Zorro. I have never hurt youths before and I promise not to start now. I am only concerned by what I have seen here this night and want to know more so I can help you and your people," he whispered in reassurance. The boy pulled back and looked at him as though for the first time.

The young man's eyes widened. "You are the outlaw, Zorro, who has helped peons escape those who would mistreat them?" he asked hopefully, wiping the tears away with a grimy sleeve.

"Sí."

"And you came here to free us?" The boy's voice trembled slightly, with hope.

"First to obtain information and then we will see how best to proceed. What is your name, muchacho?"

"Rico, Señor Zorro."

"Rico, what is your position at this ranchero?"

"Oh, Senor, we were promised great wages when the vaqueros spoke in the plaza of San Luis Obispo de Tolosa, but anyone who was foolish enough to come here has never left, at least alive, and none has received any payment. I, myself, came to earn wages for my family and now my poor mother probably wonders if I am dead or alive."

Zorro drew a deep breath in anger. "Who is the so-called patrón of this rancho?" he asked, trying to calm himself. "I am assuming it is the man with the small pointed beard and gray eyes," he said before the boy could answer.

"Sí, señor, that is Don Paulo Wheeler," Rico answered. "It is said that he came from the Indies where they use slaves brought from Africa. Don Paulo has peon slaves working in mines in the nearby mountains. It is whispered that he only grows cattle and grain until he finds gold or silver or anything else precious in the mines."

This statement puzzled Zorro. Mining was almost unheard of; everyone in California knew that if gold or silver, in any quantities existed here, the conquistadores would have already found it. He wondered what reason Wheeler would have to think he could find those things in these mountains. Greed made people act in strange ways.

"Is everyone treated as the peon foreman in the hacienda was?" Zorro asked, getting back to the problem at hand.

"Oh, Señor Zorro, it is horrible! I saw my uncle, he is the foreman, beaten nearly to death. The ones who try to escape have the dogs set on them. They do not live very long."

Zorro realized that while he was listening, he kept clenching and unclenching his fist as though it was around the neck of an imaginary enemy. Taking a deep breath, he realized that he had to put away his anger in order to have a clear head to make plans and carry them out. His anger only had the purpose of increasing his resolve.

"How many peons would like to escape tonight and go back to San Luis Obispo?" Zorro asked, surprising himself at the words that came before the thought had formed. So much for planning methodically, he thought wryly to himself.

"Tonight?" the boy asked incredulously. "Why, all of us, I am sure, señor. But what about all of the vaqueros and their devil dogs? The dogs are what frighten us the most. They are like demons from hell. If it were not for the dogs we would have probably tried to escape a long time ago."

"Yes, there must be a diversion and then if I can lead the dogs and their handlers after me, you will be able to escape. And, muchacho, you must be sure to tell the local administrado what is going on in this valley," the outlaw told the boy.

Zorro sat pondering for a moment, and while he was doing so, he heard the stumbling approach of someone from the hacienda. Rico froze against the wall of the adobe hovel, while Zorro crept to the corner of the building to see who was approaching. It was the beaten man; the foreman. He leaned wearily against the doorframe, which was exactly when Rico sneezed.

The man stared in Rico's direction, intense fear etched on his face. "Who is it?" he asked, with a trembling voice.

"Rico, Uncle Antonio," the boy answered quietly. He crept around the corner of the building to reassure the foreman, before he made any further outcries. "I had to go relieve myself and then you frightened me. Did the master beat you badly, Uncle?" he asked.

"Sí, Rico, but that would not be so bad if I knew that I could keep the rest of you from being beaten when you do not please him. It is so hard to please Don Paulo," he sighed.

Zorro had decided Antonio was someone who could be trusted in the planning of the escape as long as he could keep Don Paulo and his whip away from him. This was when he wished he had his own whip with him, feeling it would serve a better purpose against Don Paulo's back, then at home on the wall. "Señor Antonio, I am a friend. I have come to help you and your people escape," Zorro whispered.

"Uncle Antonio, it is El Zorro," Rico whispered excitedly. "He..."

Zorro interrupted Rico. "Antonio, tell me more about this landowner, Paulo Wheeler. His name and accent sound foreign. Is he from the British Indies?"

"Sí, Señor Zorro, that is what I have been able to learn. Señor Paulo is of the opinion that the land is only good for the money it can earn him, and that paying wages to peons is wasteful. I hear that he believes that all peons should be slaves, as black men are in the Indies." Antonio told him. "He has an evil temper, like the vicious wolverine. If you are able to help us escape, he will follow you to the ends of the Earth to get revenge."

"I will have to deal with that when the time comes." Zorro was confident that volatile men like Señor Wheeler usually ended up making deadly mistakes in the end. That had usually been the case in the past.

"What is your plan, Señor Zorro," Antonio asked, hopefully.

Zorro thought quickly. It would be unwise to let these two know that he had not really formulated a clear plan, but he did have several ideas that might work. "Is that building near the hacienda the stables?" he asked.

"Sí. The kennels for the dogs are along the back wall of the stables. This and the next building are where the peon slaves sleep. That building to the north of the stables is the vaqueros' quarters. About a third of them work at night and the rest work during the day."

"Do any of the dogs roam free down here, near the hacienda?" Zorro questioned. The two peons shook their heads, no.

"Do all of your people know routes away from here? You need to pick two or three trails that you feel would be best for escape with places to hide if necessary," Zorro explained.

"But Señor Zorro, if we try to hide, they will find us with their dogs," Antonio moaned.

"If I am able to arouse Don Paulo's wrath enough, most of the vaqueros and their dogs will follow me. Once I get to my horse, no dog will ever be able to catch me." Zorro wished he felt as confident as he sounded. "Go to the other building, Rico, and as quietly as you can, rouse everyone. Tell them to be ready to leave as soon as they get the signal. Antonio, you do the same in this building. Do you think they will listen to you?"

"Sí, Señor Zorro, and the few who would tell Don Paulo, we will tie up and make sure that they can do nothing to prevent our escape," Rico declared.

"I saw what appeared to be a tool or ammunition shed near the stable. Which is it?" Zorro queried.

"A tool shed, señor, but it is always kept locked," Rico answered.

"If I can, I will break in and bring what I am able to carry for you to use as weapons," Zorro explained.

"Bueno," Rico replied.

"What will the signal be?" Antonio asked anxiously.

"I believe that tonight is a good night for a bonfire," Zorro said with a grim smile. "I will release the horses as I light a fire in the stable. What your people must do is wait for the guards to come after me and then keep to the shadows until you get to your chosen trails. You must do everything in your power to get to San Luis Obispo de Tolosa. Talk to the padres there; they will help to intercede for you at the Presidio de Santa Barbara. If anyone comes after you, then you must do whatever you have to do in order ensure your escape. If you can catch any of the horses, ride them. That will also mean fewer vaqueros will be able to follow me. If any dogs chase you, use sticks, rocks, anything you can to kill them. A group of you can kill a dog where one person cannot. Do you understand this?"

"Sí, Señor Zorro," Rico and Antonio answered together. "We will do as you say. And may God go with you." They both quietly crept away.

Zorro did the same toward the tool shed. When he reached it, he found that it was indeed locked, but was able to work the point of his knife under the hasp and pry the nails loose from the semi-rotted wood. Quickly, he gathered all of the tools that might conceivably be used as weapons. It took two trips to carry everything, but he was able to do it in relative quiet. By the time he had made his second trip, all of the peons knew the plan and eagerly took the offered 'weapons.'

Zorro next crept toward the stable. Inside the doorway he found a lantern and flint and steel. Carefully, he poured the oil over some straw and put the flint and steel inside his sash. Then he quietly approached the horses and untied them. Most of the animals were docile enough that they didn't protest someone coming in the middle of the night and entering their stall. A few he had to take time to soothe before he left them. When he got to the last horse, which, by quick inspection, seemed to be sound, he led it near the back of the stable where he had poured the oil. Zorro found a suitable bridle, but he didn't bother with a saddle, hoping to be away from the rancho and to his own horses soon enough to make saddling this animal unnecessary.

Zorro found a stick and some rags. With a piece of hemp, he tied the rag around one end of the stick. Next he struck the flint and steel together and fanned the resulting sparks until they caught in the straw. He thrust his makeshift torch into the fire. As soon as the torch was lit, Zorro vaulted onto the back of the now nervous horse and with a loud yell, urged the other horses out of the stable.

Many things happened at once, Zorro noted with a great deal of pleasure. The oil in the straw was quickly creating a conflagration. The dogs were yelping and howling in fear, and vaqueros began pouring out of their quarters, like a small colony of ants from a disturbed hive.

By the light of the fire, Zorro noticed Señor Wheeler rushing onto the patio of his hacienda. _Now is the dangerous moment_ , Zorro thought as he wheeled his horse towards the haciendado. Thowing the torch through a window in the hacienda; he turned his attention to Wheeler.

"Señor Wheeler, you have tortured and enslaved these peons long enough. Now feel the wrath of Zorro," he thundered in as loud a voice as he could in the tumult. He drew his sword and slashed a Z on the man's vest. "Señor, you will treat your workers fairly or I will return and make you wish that you had never left the Indies." To increase the man's ire, he laughed and with the horse's shoulder, knocked Wheeler to the ground. Wheeler rebounded quickly and grabbed for a pistol in his belt. Zorro realized it was time for a quick departure. He prayed that Antonio and Rico were successful in their efforts to lead the peons out of the valley.

At almost the same time, Zorro heard the reports of two pistols, one presumably from Señor Wheeler, and another before him, probably a returning guard. At that moment, Zorro felt the horse falter, almost unseating him. Realizing the horse had taken a ball in its flank, he knew it would be able to carry him for only a short distance. He had counted on the animal knowing the way up these dark trails; now his advantage was lost.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Even though he knew the horse was in pain, Zorro had no choice but to continue as far as the animal could take him. He strained for a glimpse of the shooter ahead. He kept his sword unsheathed, in readiness. As Zorro dismounted from the injured horse, he heard a growling. The next thing he knew, a large object had slammed into him. As Zorro struggled to get to his feet, an enormous dog snarled and backed up several paces. He faced the dog and a guard, whom he knew was in the dark shadows nearby. Zorro was still trying to draw enough air into his lungs for a confrontation when a voice ordered, "Attack, Morte."

The huge dog raced toward him as he reached for his sword. Morte leaped at him snapping its huge jaws. Zorro grabbed the dog's lower jaw while he thrust his blade across the dog's neck. Rolling out from under the dying dog, the masked man faced his adversary who also had a sword out. By the wan moonlight, Zorro was able to make out the awkward movements of the vaquero. He was sure of the outcome of this fight.

"Señor, I do not wish to kill you. Drop your sword and walk down the trail toward the hacienda. My dispute is with your employer, not you," Zorro said.

"You will die, bandito, if for no other reason than for killing my dog," the vaquero growled, and then lunged forward. The man had few fencing skills. It was apparent he was fighting in rage. With a few deft movements, Zorro disarmed him.

"You may want to reassess your employment with Señor Wheeler. Slavery is an evil business." Zorro heard the jingle of tack and saw the vaquero's horse just ahead on the trail. "I will take your horse, señor." He rode to the crest of the hill and looked back to see what the situation was in the valley behind him. A three-quarter moon was showing through the thinning clouds, and he was astonished to see that some of the horses had been caught and there were at least ten vaqueros ready to give chase. Yelping and howling told him that there were also several dogs available to help.

"It is cursed luck tonight," Zorro murmured. He wheeled his horse around and headed down the trail. What Zorro didn't know was that the peons, with new confidence and weapons, had killed most of the dogs and stolen a number of horses. The outlaw had simply misjudged the number of animals Señor Wheeler had on his rancho.

While the moon was helpful to his enemies, it was an even greater ally to Zorro, who was in unfamiliar territory, but had the instincts of his namesake. He was able to see that this was the same trail he had followed in his search for the rancho. When he reached his camp, the outlaw was tempted to change clothes and assume the role of Diego de la Vega, feigning innocence and surprise. He realized that while the men might be fooled, the tracking dogs wouldn't. He untethered his horses and tied their leads to his saddle. Zorro quickly negotiated the trail to the El Camino Real, and then rode as swiftly as he could on the smooth roadway. He surmised it was well after midnight, and the likelihood of meeting anyone else on the road would be remote. If he could ride through the remainder of the night, he should get a fairly good lead on his pursuers before dawn.

After riding at a fast gallop for some miles, Zorro felt his 'borrowed' horse tiring. With regret he pulled the animal to the side of the road and dismounted. Checking the saddlebags, he found a pistol and extra powder and shot, as well as a water skin and some trail bread, for which he was grateful.

As Zorro added the provisions to his own coquinillo he realized that Señor Wheeler was not only a determined foe, but had the resources to continue this chase all the way to Los Angeles. With the flat of his sword, Zorro urged the vaquero's spent horse farther off the road. He listened a moment and was able to hear a distant bark, but that was all. At least three or four miles, Zorro thought. Nevertheless he urged his horse into a gallop.

The de la Vega trail horses were extremely hardy, but they, too, had been well used, even though part of the time without a rider. Zorro knew he would soon have to find a safe place where he and the horses could rest for a while. He took the chance of slowing down to a canter to conserve their energy, knowing that Wheeler's men would eventually have to do the same thing.

The sky was just beginning to lighten with the dawn when Zorro spotted a creek. He guided the horses into it and was gratified when it led to a large pond. The grateful animals paused to dip their muzzles into the water. Zorro filled the water skins and then forced the horses across the pond. "Do not fill up here, faithful ones. This chase is not done yet, and I fear we have many more miles to go."

He guided them out of the pond at the opposite end. A quick perusal of the area showed that he could cut across country for quite a few miles before having to return to the highway. The trip through the pond should have the effect of confusing the trailing dogs for a few minutes. They would have to go all the way around to pick up his trail again.

Don Paulo Wheeler surveyed the damage to his hacienda. Like churning lava in an active volcano, his wrath simmered and bubbled just beneath a thin veneer of self-control. His stable was rubble; his kennel destroyed. Most of the hacienda had been saved but that did not assuage his fury at the man who had done this. "Ramón!" he bellowed.

"Coming, Don Paulo," the vaquero tried to wipe soot from his face as he ran to Wheeler. Ramon was quick to obey; he knew the temperament of his employer.

"Tell me about this Zorro, this devil who dared to invade my rancho." Wheeler wanted to scream in rage, kick something, anything to get rid of the fury inside him, but he knew that would be futile in his quest to exact revenge. And more than anything else, he wanted revenge.

"Señor," the vaquero began, "Zorro is usually seen further south than this, nearer to the Pueblo de Los Angeles." The vaquero cringed as he heard Don Paulo's growl a vile epitaph and hurried on with his report. "I have heard that Zorro is the protector of the oppressed and those unjustly accused. I have also heard that some of the peons believe he is almost supernatural, because he has never been caught. It is said the peons feel that Zorro is their champion."

"Peons? Did you say peons?" Wheeler swung around and looked towards the peons' quarters. "Where are the peons?" he roared.

Another vaquero ran up to Wheeler. "Don Paulo, we have been able to capture about twelve of the horses, but all of the dogs in the kennels are dead. The peons have disappeared; they have apparently fled into the mountains. I believe they may have taken some of the horses, too."

Wheeler exploded. He struck the vaquero with a blow hard enough to drop him like a stone. "Every one of you who can ride, come here immediately!" As a group of vaqueros gathered, the beginning of a plan formed in his mind. The plan would work if they executed it swiftly.

"We will divide into two groups. I will lead one group to the Presidio de Santa Barbara, where I will lay my just case before the comandante. As much as I would like to catch and skewer this Zorro myself, I will be just as happy to see him hang in the Presidio. Manuel will lead the second group, since he is the best tracker in California." Wheeler paused for breath before continuing. "Manuel, you will start in the direction that we last saw this cursed Zorro go. There is only one trail in that direction that leads to the highway. I am sure he will proceed with haste towards Los Angeles since that is the area he is most familiar with. The rest of you will stay here and try to round up any more stray horses or escaped peons. Get this hacienda in readiness for the time when I return with news of Zorro's death."

Another vaquero stumbled into the group. "Don Paulo," he panted. "El Zorro took my horse after he killed Morte and wounded me. I tried to stop him, but he is like the devil himself!"

"I will kill him, even if it means tracking him to the depths of hell and back," Wheeler hissed. "No one does this to Paulo Wheeler and lives to boast of it."

He turned to Manuel. "Take four of the best men and eight of the best horses, and get on this man's trail. If you catch up with him before I join you, then go ahead and kill him but make sure that you take his body to the nearest garrison. I am sure there is a reward for this cursed pest, and it will do my heart good to use the money to build up the rancho again." He laughed at the thought, and continued laughing as Manuel and his men rode away in the same direction Zorro had taken. The sound of his maniacal laughter became more sinister as it echoed and re-echoed off the rocks.

Manuel had taken just enough time to fill and light a good lantern. It would be hard to track in the dark, but he also had a healthy enough fear of Senor Wheeler to know that waiting for dawn would be suicide. The tracker also took the three remaining dogs with him. Their noses would be invaluable, even though he was confident that he could find this Zorro without their help.

It was still an hour or so before the dawn when the group reached the campsite of Don Diego. Manuel carefully studied the ground, even though the other vaqueros grumbled at the delay.

"Quiet!" Manuel ordered them. "A small amount of precaution now will save much explanation of failure to Don Paulo later." The threat created a welcome silence.

Zorro had two horses waiting at this site, but he continued to use the horse he had stolen from the rancho. Manuel could tell they were well cared for traveling horses. One had been recently shod, and "Ahh," Manuel sighed in satisfaction. "I will have you yet, fox." He grinned as he held the lantern close to a hoof-print with a flaw on one side, one that had the appearance of a cut in the side of the horseshoe. _How fortunate that the blacksmith used_ _inferior iron_ , thought Manuel. The dogs sniffed the campground and then barked in anticipation, as though they felt Manuel's elation. "It doesn't matter what El Zorro does; as long as he has this animal, I will be able to follow him quite easily."

Manuel's eyes gleamed as he thought ahead to the hunt. Like the dogs, he felt great anticipation in running his quarry down and making the capture, and though he thought Zorro would be worthy of his talents, Manuel knew this fox would, in the end, be his.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Capitan Enrico Gregorio was a man used to being obeyed. He was a strict disciplinarian. Any man under his command who could not stand his rules was shipped to Los Angeles or some other backwater garrison. His personal appearance also showed strict attention to detail— his mustache and beard were trimmed to exactness each morning. The soldiers claimed that they could see themselves in his shiny buttons and buckles, if they had the courage to get that close to try.

It was rumored that the soldier unlucky enough to be caught sleeping on guard duty had to measure the length of his hair to see how many inches the comandante had cut off with the sharp edge of his tongue.

So it was with some surprise that the comandante's aide allowed Don Paulo Wheeler to burst in without making him wait to be announced. Gregorio shot a warning glance at the sergeant, before dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

"Comandante," Wheeler blustered, not allowing the captain any time to say anything. "I demand that your men protect the haciendas of this area against the depredations of outlaws such as that devil, Zorro! In one night he has destroyed what it has taken me an entire year of work and money to build! It is outrageous!"

Gregorio's eyes widened in surprise. He immediately controlled the response. "Patrón, you will control yourself!" he ordered. Wheeler's jaw closed with a snap. That was more like it, Gregorio thought. "Zorro, here?" he asked. He had assumed Zorro would never dare come into the territory under his jurisdiction. His vigilant efforts to maintain order with the well-trained and disciplined soldiers under his command should have precluded that.

"Sí, Comandante." Wheeler spoke more quietly now. "He maliciously sneaked onto my rancho last night, burned most of the buildings, frightened all my peons away, destroyed part of my livestock and wounded some of my vaqueros." He paused for breath, as well as for effect, which was not lost on the comandante.

"How could this travesty be? Here in my district?!" Gregorio half rose from his seat, his features showing his indignation. "Sergeant," he commanded.

Sergeant Martinez opened the door immediately, his eyes the only thing showing his fear at the summons. "Sí, Comandante." He was statue still after his salute.

"Sergeant Martinez, muster two groups of ten lancers each. Inform them they must be ready before the noon bell rings to ride after the outlaw, Zorro. I will inspect the troops fifteen minutes before they ride." He looked at his pocket watch and then glanced back up at his aide de camp. "That gives them only five minutes, Sergeant."

"Sí, Comandante," the sergeant answered, saluted again and left. Gregorio had no doubt the orders would be carried out to perfection by the time he left his office.

"Now, Don Paulo, in order to save my lancers time, which direction did El Zorro take when he finished the destruction of your rancho?" There was no doubt in Gregorio's mind that the outlaw had damaged Don Paulo's holdings, but surmised the peons had either been helped to escape or had taken the opportunity when it presented itself. The Capitan had his own reputation on enforcing the laws, but they always favored the landowners. Peons had few rights. He knew the rumors regarding conditions on the Wheeler rancho, but investigating such conditions, unless they posed a threat to law and order, was not his job. Besides, no one of significance had complained or presented him with evidence.

With that in mind, Gregorio felt a grudging admiration for this Zorro, who was able to accomplish so much single-handedly against great odds. He wished he had such determined and courageous men under his command. However, his own sense of military discipline would brook no disharmony in the order he kept in his district.

"He stole one of my horses and was traveling on a south-bound trail out of the valley. Since he is normally seen in the vicinity of the Pueblo de Los Angeles, it was my assumption that he is heading that way. I have an expert tracker following him. If anyone can track the fox to his lair, it is Manuel. But of course your lancers will probably take him first," he added to flatter the comandante.

"My lancers are well trained and well disciplined. If my troops cross his trail, they will have him." Gregorio answered Don Paulo. He wasn't fooled by the conciliatory tones of the hacendado and was irritated by the man's clumsy attempt to flatter him. Gregorio found himself despising the man. "If you will please leave, Señor. I have duties to attend to."

Wheeler cursed the comandante's seeming lack of passion in this quest, especially after his initial outburst. But he knew the lancers would, at the very least, serve the purpose of forcing the diabolical Zorro into his hands. Between the soldiers and Manual and the dogs, the outlaw wouldn't have a chance to escape.

When he stepped out of the comandante's office he saw twenty smartly dressed lancers standing at attention next to some of the finest horseflesh in this part of California. Wheeler smiled in satisfaction. This would indeed be a foxhunt he would long remember and one he was going to take immense delight participating in.

The day dragged on; the sun beat down from above and radiated from the dry ground below. The horizon danced and shimmered in the distance, and the heat waves mocked the traveler with visions of cool refreshing water. It was approaching the time of the afternoon for the siesta, the time when it was too hot to do much of anything else, but rest. Later, when the air cooled people could go about their routines again.

The dust of the trail choked man and horse. Zorro slowed the pace to a trot and then to a walk. By mid-afternoon, both he and the horses were covered with sweat and dust. Even though he had changed mounts often, the outlaw could tell the horses were becoming overly fatigued. Even his own Tejas, who was a good traveling horse, was not meant for this pace.

Pulling up his mounts in a secluded thicket, he let exhaustion wash over him for a moment before dismounting. The vegetation was dried and yellow from the overlong heat wave, but Zorro let the horses graze on what they could find while he dug through the saddlebag for provisions. He simply couldn't bring himself to eat any of the trail bread. It looked as dry and tasteless as the dust under his feet. He pulled out one of the water skins and took a long drink of the warm water. Sighing, he thought of the long miles ahead and took another drink before replacing the container back in the saddlebag.

Zorro dug through the second coquinillo that contained his clothing. Now was probably a good time to revert to the role of Don Diego. When he returned to the highway, he could mingle with all the other travelers. Not even the dogs would be able to unravel all the scents. He would be able to stay in an inn tonight. The little bit of breeze that stirred the dust felt good against his sweaty back as he removed the black shirt and sash. Diego picked up the plain cotton shirt, but hesitated. Something was nagging him, some feeling of wrongness about changing identities at this time. He couldn't figure out what made him feel this way, but he had not survived thus far without trusting his instincts. Sighing, he decided he would follow this one to the end as Zorro and hope by the Saints that his choice was a good one.

The outlaw redressed slowly, reluctant to draw on the heat retaining clothing again. The horses had finished grazing; they too would need water soon. Zorro also realized they would need more than a little rest. He had already traveled four days before this venture ever began; travel which, though not grueling, had been hard and steady. This was now becoming a test of his endurance such as he had never experienced before.

Zorro reached into the saddle bag one more time, this time for the business papers from the government transactions he had conducted in Monterey. He placed them under his sash where they would be safe. Then he mounted Bernardo's trail horse. Zorro broke the horses into a canter. Hopefully they would reach the highway before sunset. _Perhaps by then_ , Zorro thought, _I will have traveled far enough so that my pursuers have_ _given up. And_ _perhaps cows can sprout wings and fly across the_ _mountains_. Resolutely, he continued across the dusty valley towards the highway some miles distant.

Manuel paused at the pond and scrutinized where Zorro had entered with his horses. It was nearing noon. They had already found the spent horse. Some of the vaqueros had complained bitterly about the delay and were all for continuing at full speed down the highway. They assured Manuel that Zorro, being in unfamiliar territory, would ride the swiftest, surest route.

"Estupidos," he berated them. "This man has a price on his head and I suspect he at least guesses the disposition of Don Paulo. Do you think he would gallop straight down the middle of the King's Highway during the day? Do you think El Zorro has escaped capture for this long by being a _baboso?_ " He laughed at them; they were idiots, all of them, thinking only of how they were going to spend their pay and how best to impress the señoritas in Santa Barbara. "I guarantee you, unless Zorro is a complete imbecile, he will leave the highway. I think he also has a very healthy respect for the dogs. And he will yet learn to respect me, too," he hissed softly, his eyes glittering.

His theory became reality when they reached the pond. Manuel carefully walked his horse around the edge of the water and saw the tracks of Zorro's horses in the soft mud. His piercing black eyes glittered with joy. "Ah," he sighed with great satisfaction. "I was right. Come," he shouted to the others. "We will change horses now and follow the tracks. Zorro is trying to cut across the hills and avoid the highway, just as I said he would. He is stupid to think that trick with the pond would fool me. We should be able to catch him tonight or tomorrow. Even the mighty Zorro has to stop and rest sometime." The group mounted up and started off again at a steady ground-eating trot. The three dogs lolled across the saddles of their vaquero handlers, whining slightly in anticipation.

Comandante Gregorio's two groups of lancers were crisscrossing both sides of the southbound highway by early afternoon. While the comandante had assured them that El Zorro would most likely not be on the highway, he felt the outlaw might be traveling near it. The soldiers were also under orders to question any and all travelers to see if the bandit had been spotted.

Wheeler and his vaqueros had been allowed to accompany one of the groups as it searched. The hacendado felt he had exercised a great deal of restraint to avoid ordering the men to greater speed. Finally after several hours he asked the sergeant in charge what his plans were when the evening came.

"Don Paulo," Sergeant Martinez answered, "We will make camp. Our orders are to do our best to find this outlaw, not to kill our horses in the effort. We were also given orders to return to the presidio tomorrow evening if we have not captured Zorro by that time."

The sergeant's curt reply effectively silenced Don Paulo's heated retort. All he could do was grind his teeth in frustration and hope the next day brought the black-clad fiend into his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Just before the sun set, Tejas pricked up his ears and snorted, jolting Zorro into full wakefulness. With chagrin, he realized he had dozed in the saddle. He berated himself, for such lack of vigilance could mean death.

The object of the horses' attention was a small lake down the ridge. Zorro gave the palomino his head and both animals galloped down to the edge of the water. Quickly unfastening the cinches, he let the saddles drop on the ground near the lakeshore. Putting the government papers into one of the saddlebags, he removed his boots, gloves, and hat and remounted Tejas. Taking both horses out into the lake to a point where the water began lapping gently at the bottom of the horses' bellies, Zorro stood up on his horse's back and proceeded to dive into the lake. He was not impeded by the cape, as he had removed that hours before.

Zorro, like most Californianos of this dry region, got pleasure from an occasional swim. But he didn't think he had felt anything this pleasurable for a long time. Zorro luxuriated in it until he heard a soft cry behind him.

A young woman stood among the rushes of the little lake, watching him with wide, dark eyes. She had been washing her laundry and was startled by his appearance. Again, he berated himself for his lack of attentiveness. "Buenas tardes, señorita," he said calmly. It would not do to have this young girl run off, screaming for help.

Zorro needn't have worried. For her part, Maria was fearful, but not to the point of hysteria. She was fascinated by this tall, slender stranger who chose to wear a mask. She was also amused that he took his horses into the lake and swam with his clothes on. "Who are you, señor?" she asked in a voice loud enough to be heard over the splashing. He quickly motioned her to remain quiet for a moment while he remounted the palomino he had ridden into the lake. Both the horses and the stranger looked better for their dip. When he had ridden up to the lake, the man had appeared to be dressed in gray, she could see now that the apparel was of pure black cloth. Puzzled, Maria frowned, because she felt there was something she should know about this stranger, but she couldn't think what it was.

The man rode closer to her. The other horse followed behind docilely, and Maria could see that despite the mask the man was roguishly handsome. But then again, she thought to herself, maybe it was because of it. When he was almost to the shore he stopped and asked gently, "Señorita, are you alone?"

From some men, that query would have alarmed her, but she didn't feel threatened. "Sí, señor, I was just finishing my family's laundry."

"One more request, señorita, and then I will feel free to answer your question," the stranger said kindly, but firmly. "Will you promise not to tell anyone you have seen me, at least not for a week? If you cannot make this promise, then I will continue on my way immediately." The dark stranger paused a moment and then smiled grimly. "I believe that I have made a dangerous enemy and I do not want you endangered on my account," he explained.

By no means did Maria wish the man to go away, as she was very curious about him. "Oh, señor, I promise," she assured him. "I will not even tell my family."

"Gracias, señorita," he laughed softly at her exuberant reply. "I am called Zorro. I believe I am being followed by a very vindictive ranchero. I do not think he enjoyed it when I released his slaves."

He laughed again, and despite the grim explanation, the sound of his laugh reminded her of the joy she felt at the Saint's day celebrations. The girl laughed with him. She had realized why she thought there was something familiar about the outlaw. All of the peons within two days journey from Los Angeles had heard of Zorro. She noticed that El Zorro was watching her very closely. She blushed.

Zorro had to admit that the girl was very lovely. He also appreciated the fact that she had a level head on her shoulders. She was not one to scream and weep at the slightest hint of danger like some girls he had met.

"My name is Maria, Señor Zorro," the girl said soberly. "My younger brother, Rico, went to work for such a hacienda some distance away and we have heard nothing of him since. I can only hope that maybe you have freed him." Maria sighed, remembering her brother, whom she loved dearly and missed very much. It saddened her knowing her parents now believed her younger brother was dead.

"Maria," Zorro said, and then coughed softly, as though something was in his throat. "It is getting late. Your family will be worried. Get your laundry and you can ride my other horse part of the way to your home."

Zorro crossed back over to where he had left his belongings. He resaddled Tejas, but left the papers in the saddlebags for now, as he didn't want to ruin them in his wet clothing. He carried the other saddle with him as he re-entered the lake. Halfway across he dropped the saddle. It disappeared quickly. His extra clothing had remained with the discarded saddle, so he was now committed to his previous decision.

"I hope you do not mind, señorita, but two saddles are becoming somewhat of a liability right now. Do you mind riding bareback?" he said, handing Maria the reigns.

"Señor Zorro, bareback is just fine. It is so much better than walking. Our farm lies in that direction," she added, pointing to the southeast. "If that is convenient to you."

"Good," the outlaw said. "When we reach a rocky area where you will leave no foot prints, it will be time to climb down and proceed alone."

"Gracias, señor," the girl said quietly, coming to a more complete realization of the gravity of the situation that Zorro was in.

After a few minutes of riding in silence, Zorro spoke in the deepening gloom of night, "Maria, is Rico a small boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age?"

"Sí, Señor Zorro," Maria answered anxiously. "Have you seen him?"

"I think so. If we are talking about the same young man, I hope he is at or near the Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa by now. He helped to get his fellow slaves away from the rancho of Paulo Wheeler," Zorro explained. "His Uncle Antonio was there, too."

He was surprised when Maria brought her horse close to his and grabbing his arm, jerked him toward her. Then she gave him a long kiss of gratitude. Not unpleased by the attention, he looked at her, and saw tears in her eyes.

"Gracias, señorita," he replied. "But what did I do to deserve such an honor?"

"Oh, Señor Zorro," Maria exclaimed, "That **was** my brother you saved from slavery, because when he never returned with his wages, my Uncle Antonio went to find out what happened to him. He never returned, either." She smiled happily at him. "Our family will be eternally grateful to you. No one will ever curse the name of Zorro around our house," she said with great emotion. "Let me go now, this is a rocky path and not too far from our home." Maria slid down from the horse and started down the path. "And Señor Zorro, I will not tell anyone I have seen you," she promised again. "Vaya con Dios," she added.

"Gracias, Maria, God go with you also." Zorro wheeled his horse and galloped away, the other horse following behind.

It was only then Maria allowed herself to cry. She cried for the hope renewed that her brother and uncle were still alive and would be coming home soon. She cried quietly for a few minutes and then turned and walked the last quarter mile to her home.

Zorro circled back and dismounted near the place where Maria had left him. The dogs of Señor Wheeler's rancho still worried him and he wanted to make sure they didn't follow her trail instead of his. He walked around the horses a few times and even brushed his cape against the dirt a bit. Even though he felt he had probably outrun the dogs, he would still prefer to be overcautious than not.

Continuing towards the southeast at a trot, he was more careful now that it was dark. The moon had not yet risen and the velvet darkness hid very real dangers to man and horses. And although he had not been able to reach the highway, he knew by the constellations that the direction he was taking was getting him closer to home.

As the sun set, the vaqueros' grumbling grew more intense. "Manuel," one of them said. "You said we would catch him tonight."

"The night is not over yet," Manuel growled at him. "Now we will see if these dogs you have been coddling and allowing to ride most of the day are worth anything. See if they can get the scent and do part of our work for us."

The vaqueros took the dogs over to the trail Zorro had left and pointed it out to them. "Seek," the vaqueros said simultaneously. The dogs sniffed, growled, and whined anxiously. "Seek, Find, Kill," they were ordered. The animals jumped and danced in eager anticipation. Lunging away from their handlers, the three dogs shot off along the trail, following not only the scent of the horses, but the scent molecules of the man who rode them. Soon the great hounds were swallowed up in the darkness, and their eager cries and yelps slowly became muted as they loped along in pursuit of the quarry they had been waiting all day to chase.

"If all goes well," Manuel stated, "the dogs will take care of our quarry by first light. If they fail, then we will take care of him ourselves." Manuel and the other vaqueros laughed harshly. Manuel thought in grim amusement that this fox's chance of surviving the night was slim to none. He laughed quietly as he mounted his gelding.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Night and Day 2

When Zorro jerked awake for the third time, he decided that whether he wanted to or not, he had to stop for a few hours of sleep. The air was chill at this midnight hour and he wrapped the blanket a little tighter as he tried to survey the terrain to find the best site. By the light of the newly risen moon, the outlaw finally found a secluded thicket, which, if necessary, could be easily defended.

Dismounting, he led the horses in amongst the brambles and bushes. There was just enough room for the two horses to move around a bit and for him to stretch out. Zorro was confident enough of Tejas' training that he didn't tether him. Bernardo's horse, on the other hand, he tied to his left wrist. If anyone or anything approached, the mare's movements would awaken him in an instant. As he stretched out under his blanket, he drew his sword and fell asleep with it clutched in his right hand.

The stars wheeled above, oblivious to the problems of mortals below, and the horses quietly grazed on whatever edible vegetation grew up between the brambles. The sharp bark of a dog in the distance made Tejas jerk his head up suddenly. He flicked his ears nervously in all directions, but slowly relaxed when the sound was not repeated and there were no alarming smells in the air.

Zorro was startled into total wakefulness with the feeling that his left arm was being jerked out of its socket. Jumping to his feet to face whatever danger had spooked the horses he found himself face to face with three enormous dogs.

One was harrassing Tejas, who was in such a panic that he brushed past Zorro, and, lashing out with his hooves, kicked one of the dogs senseless. He dashed out of the thicket to safety. Zorro was only partly aware of this as the other two dogs chose this moment to make their attack. One handed, the beleaguered outlaw slashed at the dogs while trying to keep control of Bernardo's horse. It would be much easier to fight the animals if he cut the tether, but the outlaw knew he couldn't afford to lose both horses. He had miscalculated and lost Tejas, he wouldn't do the same with the mare.

One dog leaped back and forth, snapping and trying to get at Zorro's legs. The other hound kept attempting to slink around to his right side for an attack. Finally Bernardo's horse had backed up enough that she was no longer jerking on his left arm. With more control available, Zorro was able to run one dog through the next time it lunged at him. It died with a short yelp. The last dog was stopped in mid-leap and collapsed to the ground with a gurgling cry. Checking all of the dogs, Zorro made sure that each was dead.

He next cut loose the tether and checked the horse. Other than a few bramble cuts, the animal was none the worse for its ordeal. His left wrist however, had been abraded and was bleeding slightly. He checked quickly outside the thicket to ensure that none of the vaqueros had was near, before tearing a strip from his blanket and tying it around his wrist as best as he could one-handed. Zorro's thoughts were bitter as he checked the cinch on the mare. He had to remind himself that he was alive and he had taken the precaution of changing the saddle to Bernardo's horse before his rest.

It was his expectation that he would make it into familiar territory today. Just being near home, he felt, would give him some advantage, and definitely some of the inspiration he was lacking now.

Zorro mounted the faithful trail horse. There were only a few hours before the dawn and he wanted to get out of the area before anything else happened. The abbreviated rest had helped, but exhaustion was still not very far off and he knew he had to find someplace safe to regain his strength. Zorro rode slowly out of the thicket, got his bearings from the stars, and put the horse into a canter towards the southeast. As he rode, he ate breakfast from the provisions in his saddlebag and washed it down with some water. It wasn't much, but it was sustenance.

Several hours later, not too long after the sun had risen gloriously in the east, Zorro approached a ridge, dismounted and cautiously made his way up to the crest. His suspicions that he was near the highway were confirmed when he saw it stretching below him in the valley. Cursing under his breath, he realized this time of the day was not a good one for an outlaw to be on the King's Highway. The post dawn hours were usually busy ones on the thoroughfare, with farmers, rancheros, and soldiers taking advantage of the cooler hours of daytime to get to their destinations. It was a wonder there were no peons or soldiers on the road already. The countryside on the far side of the highway appeared to have many more areas in which to hide. It also presented a more direct route to Los Angeles, so Zorro decided that the best time to cross the road was now, while the road was deserted.

As soon as he had made up his mind, Zorro didn't hesitate. Swinging into the saddle, he rode over the ridge at a gallop. And to his horror, as he was crossing the highway, a contingent of ten lancers came into view from the north. Their cries of triumph as they spotted him spurred him to urge greater speed from the weary animal. Instead of immediately crossing the highway, Zorro turned his horse onto it and rode on the relatively smooth ground until he saw a narrow ravine. As they turned up the small trail, the whine of a bullet caused him to duck.

This day was certainly not starting out either well or as he planned, Zorro thought. Wheeler had apparently complained to the Comandante of the Presidio de Santa Barbara and enlisted his aide. Bernardo's horse fairly flew down the trail in response to his urging, but Zorro knew this would not be enough. He scanned each side of the trail, looking for opportunities to elude the lancers he knew were still following him. Finally he saw his chance as he came upon a deep, swift river flowing westward. Jumping off the mare while she was still running, he hid in the rocks as she crossed the river and disappeared downstream.

Hiding in the boulder-strewn waste near the river, Zorro watched for the arrival of the pursuing lancers. His eyes narrowed in anticipation as he untied his cloak and gathered it in his hands for the confrontation. Soon the soldiers rode up to the riverbank, where they hesitated slightly to check the tracks before following. At that moment, Zorro leaped out from hiding and, snapping his cape, screamed like the devil himself. Dancing in and among the animals, he flapped the black cape in their eyes and waved it in their faces. The frightened animals danced and reared in fright, dumping their riders ignominiously into the dust, before scattering in various directions. In the narrow confines of the ravine, some of the horses, which had been at the back of the line of pursuers, were only able to turn and run back down the trail carrying their clinging riders with them. That made the odds even better, Zorro thought.

These were well-trained men. Almost immediately after their unhorsing, he found himself facing two of them. Throwing the cape behind him, he whipped out his sword and advanced on the lancers before they could find time to decide on strategy. He found himself smiling broadly. This was more like it, something he himself had initiated. His blade could not be seen, its action was so fast. One of the soldiers was quickly disarmed with a deft flick of Zorro's sword and the other found himself bleeding from a score on his sword arm. Of the other five, one was unconscious and another was furiously trying to load his pistol. Zorro soon had that one's weapon and ammunition.

"Line up against the boulder, señores," he ordered. "I am left with the decision of what to do with you," he said with a great smile. "I really would like to stay and ponder that matter but..." Zorro's sword swished with unerring accuracy the lancers found their belts and consequently their trousers sitting in the dust around their ankles. "Give my greetings to Comandante Gregorio. I must bid you good day," he laughed and with a great flourish of his hand to his hat, grabbed his cape and disappeared into the rocks. The lancers groaned and gathered their pants, having to hold them up with one hand.

That little episode restored a bit of the humor Zorro had felt slipping away during the last two nights and one day of grueling flight. Realistically understanding that he still had a powerful enemy to reckon with, the outlaw felt the odds were never impossible. His problem right now was the lack of a horse. It had been impossible to deal with the lancers and capture one of their mounts at the same time, or he would be riding on Government Issue right now. Speedily making his way along the riverbank in the same direction the mare had taken, he also kept his eyes open for any stray horses or more importantly, any other pursuers. The firing of all of those pistols would have been heard reverberating among the rocks for some distance.

After walking a short time among the brush near the bank, Zorro saw the mare standing quietly on the opposite side. Whistling, he waited for her arrival. As with most of the horses the de la Vegas kept for their personal use she immediately crossed the river.

"Ah, faithful one," he murmured, rubbing her nose. "Soon you will have the rest you so richly deserve." A nickering behind him made him pivot around, his sword already out by the time he had made a complete turn. Zorro laughed when he saw one of the lancer's horses standing nearby greeting the mare. "Well, I suppose that I will get to ride government horseflesh after all. That will give you a bit of a rest, little one," he said to the tired mare.

Swinging himself up onto the lancer's gelding, he guided it out into the river. The mare followed him. The current propelled them along to the junction with the King's Highway, where they had to duck under a large timbered bridge. Shortly past that point, Zorro decided that it was time to leave the river and continue south. With a chuckle, the outlaw realized that ironically he was still on the same side of the highway that he had begun on.

A sudden pistol shot hitting the gelding right in front of its shoulder caused it to pitch forward. Zorro leaped off, immediately dashing back to the mare. Vaulting to her back, he spurred her to a gallop. Glancing behind, he noticed a group of vaqueros was now trying to converge upon him. By leaning forward, he avoided several other balls that whizzed his way and was also able to urge his horse on to even greater speed. "Swiftly, faithful one," he said into the horse's ear. The horse put on a little extra speed, but the outlaw knew this was only temporary. As he looked back, he noted the vaqueros had slackened their pace a bit. "Slow down, girl, slow down," he told the mare. As soon as the trail curved, Zorro urged the horse up a fairly steep, rocky slope and down the other side. Continuing this course of action, he was able to reconnoiter the position of his enemies at a glance, taking note of their unwavering pursuit.

Zorro was now heading more towards the ocean, but at this time he really didn't see any immediate recourse. There were many places near the beaches where one could stage an ambush, although he felt these men were led by one who would not be fooled as easily as were the lancers. The thought also occurred to him that perhaps his retinue of vaqueros wanted to corner him where he had nowhere to escape.

His previous light-hearted mood dispelled, Zorro almost shouted in rage. Never had he been hunted and badgered like this before. One of the things that kept him going now was the fear of retribution against his father were he to be captured or killed and then unmasked. He would ride into the ocean first.

Startled by these dismal thoughts, Zorro slowed the horse down from a slow canter to a trot. _I must think clearly_ , he chided himself, _and not despair._ "There is still breath in us," he murmured to the lathered horse, "And while there is breath there is hope."

Manuel and his companions had ridden the entire night to catch up with their dogs and quarry soon after sunrise. Their horses, while not fresh, were in better shape than the outlaw's horse. The vaqueros had been able to change mounts often. It was shortly after sunrise that they came across the scene of the dogs' demise. Manuel scrutinized the tracks, noting with satisfaction the loss of one of the outlaw's horses. While the vaqueros were bemoaning the loss of the dogs, Manuel ordered them to mount up. "We cannot be far behind Zorro. We are certainly not far from the highway." He noticed with satisfaction, that the man had been fatigued enough to have left some of his belongings behind. He saw a torn blanket lying in a heap, a bit of rope.

A short time later, the group heard shots coming from the direction of the highway. Manuel spurred his horse to greater speed and after a short while the vaqueros came over a ridge and almost on top of Zorro, who was just coming out of the river on a lancer's horse. The horse that followed looked as though it should have collapsed a long time ago. Manuel gave a cry of triumph, fired his pistol at the outlaw, killing his mount immediately. Zorro very nimbly leaped off the dying animal and sprang on his own mount, urging it to a speed that surprised the tracker. It was no matter, the mare was not good for a prolonged chase. In his premonition of a final confrontation, he admonished the vaqueros to greater speed. Zorro turned westward, a route that would take him more towards the ocean. Manuel's eyes glittered in victory. They would have him soon. In satisfaction, he ordered the vaqueros to slow the horses down a little. All they had to do right now is keep running the outlaw on his present course.

Zorro thought about his situation as he continued his route almost straight west towards the ocean. Apparently there had been a group of vaqueros from Senor Wheeler's rancho. Or maybe these were the owners of the dogs. Zorro thought again of how he was usually in control of situations, not being controlled by them. As he rode, Zorro thought furiously of how to change this whole mess back to his advantage.

Suddenly, a wild plan forced its way into his mind. It was so outrageously insane that he laughed aloud, and it was something so amazingly simple that it should have occurred to him before. He had ambushed the lancers almost without thought; it was not inconceivable to do something similar with these vaqueros, especially since he had apparently dispatched the only dogs they had brought with them.

"By the Saints," he said to the horse. "I think it is time we hunt the hunters." He slowed the mare down to cross a rocky ridge, and then cut through a valley at a more leisurely pace. It was his goal to lead the vaqueros as far from the main road as possible. Up ridge and down valley he went at a slow trot throughout most of the rest of the day until, finally Zorro came across a small stream where he let the exhausted horse have a small drink, while he did the same.

Taking his hat, he scooped up some water and wet down the horse's withers and flanks. Looking around and confirming that he was still alone, he took the mask off, dipped it in the cool stream and replaced it. Feeling much better, he and the mare turned back up stream, walking a quarter of a mile past the point where he entered. He wanted to go parallel to the route he had taken, not retrace it. It was at this time also that the outlaw took the time to check his saddlebags. Sighing at the ruin inside the leather containers, he was glad he had transferred the government papers back to his person earlier in the day. Pulling off the saddlebags, he simply threw them behind a bush on the opposite side of the stream. At least that would be a little less weight for the mare to carry.

As the sun began to set, Zorro slightly increased the horse's gait to cover more ground before darkness made it difficult to see the landmarks of his outward journey. When it was sufficiently dark, he stopped near a rocky formation and settled himself at the top, where he could watch his previous trail without betraying his position. The horse he tethered loosely at the base of the formation, where she could graze if she chose to, although right now the mare simply hung her head in exhaustion. He shook his head in pity as he listened to her heavy breathing. "Rest for a while, little one," Zorro said softly and then turned his gaze back to the trail. By the moonlight, he saw that the vaqueros were nowhere in his range of vision. He kept watching and listening for their arrival on the westward trail, but like the mare, he was exhausted. After trying to listen for his pursuers for another hour, the outlaw threw his cape around his shoulders and dozed off into a fitful slumber.

Manuel looked at the tracks with increasing satisfaction. El Zorro was heading in the direction that he had wanted him to, the ocean. And he realized that the outlaw's horse was running all out. Surely Zorro's mount must be nearing the end of its endurance. He would take nothing for granted, but it appeared that the Fox was running blindly now. It had been very fortunate for them that his shot had killed the lancer's horse. Following Zorro on a fresh mount would have been much more difficult. As it was, they could spare their horses and follow at an more sedate pace. This quarry had been very fortunate, but Manuel had not earned his reputation by letting prey escape. The Fox was aptly named, but Manuel would take him soon. And that thought gave him a great deal of pleasure.

Paulo Wheeler fumed, cursed and raved at the sergeant in charge of the lancers. But Sergeant Martinez was adamant. "Señor, my orders come from my comandante, whom I have sworn to obey. I am to return to the presidio, if we have had no success by tonight," the sergeant explained for the third time. "Capitán Gregorio was very clear that he would not take a chance of ruining good horse flesh by running them all the way to the Pueblo de Los Angeles." Sergeant Martinez was disgusted with the "suggestions" Señor Wheeler had inflicted on him. "If you have a complaint, take it up with Comandante Gregorio or better yet, complain in Los Angeles. They have more experience with this Zorro." The sergeant promptly ordered his men about and they trotted in formation back toward Santa Barbara. As they went, the sergeant heard Señor Wheeler curse again and then order his own men towards Los Angeles.

About ten miles further up the King's Highway, Sgt. Martinez came across ten very hot, disheveled and disgusted lancers. Owing to the fact that there were only a half dozen horses, most were riding double. At his query, the leader of the contingent explained what had happened at the river with El Zorro. Sgt. Martinez just shook his head and laughing, said, "You had better embellish your tale, Armando, before you get to the presidio, or Capt. Gregorio will slice the rest of your uniforms off."

"Sí, Sergeant, but we had him," the corporal whined. "We had him boxed in a ravine with the river at his back and still he managed to ambush us. I can understand why he has never been captured. And his sword work..." The corporal's voice trailed off and he sighed as the group traveled toward Santa Barbara in the orange rays of the setting sun.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Night and Day 3

Bernardo was eating his evening meal alone in the inn at Santa Barbara. Even though he had departed Monterey before the priests said he should, the manservant had been restless after his patrón had left without him. He felt responsible for Don Diego and not just because he happened to be his manservant. Despite the master/servant relationship, there was still a camaraderie that transcended their stations in life. They had been through much together and had each saved the other's life several times. Bernardo rubbed his temples, trying to get rid of the slight headache threatening his concentration.

He had a nagging, gnawing feeling of impending doom. He couldn't explain it. It didn't happen often, but when it did, something had happened. Therefore he had left a day and a half after his patrón, taking the speediest stage available to the Pueblo de Los Angeles. So far, the coach had made good time. Bernardo secretly hoped he might meet Don Diego at one of the inns along the stage route, but so far that hadn't happened.

A tap on his shoulder brought Bernardo out of his reverie. The innkeeper was pointing in an exaggerated manner to his tankard asking about a refill. Even though he could hear very well, it suited his and Don Diego's purposes for him to pretend to be deaf. But there was no faking the fact he was mute, and had been since birth. He shook his head, no. Sometimes his ruse made people believe he was an idiot. Even though it exasperated him at times, this too, served a greater purpose. From time to time he even acted the fool. People were very quick to believe that because he had no tongue, he also had no brains. The benefit was that people often said things in front of a foolish deaf-mute they would never say in front of a hearing man.

Mulling over the last few sips of wine, he was astonished to hear about a raid El Zorro had made against the rancho of Don Paulo Wheeler, two nights previous. _By the Saints, what in the world would Don Diego want to stop and do that for_ , Bernardo thought in wonderment? Don Diego sometimes had a penchant for impetuosity that not only worried him, but sometimes scared the mozo to death. This was one time he wished he had not packed Don Diego's costume.

Some of the speakers were indignant, but others seemed to indicate that this Don Paulo was a sadistic tyrant who had gotten his pesos from the backs of slaves and El Zorro had done the peons a great service. Bernardo smiled to himself, and knowing that was something Don Diego would get himself involved in. Then he heard more comments that sent fear shooting into his heart.

"I do not think Señor Zorro will get away with this venture," one man at the next table commented sadly to his companion. "Between Don Paulo's dogs and his famous tracker, Manuel, it is my humble opinion that the devil himself could not escape. And on top of that, Comandante Gregorio sent out twenty lancers to find Zorro, too," the man explained. "I tell you, Pablo, this Zorro is a dead man, whoever he is."

With great anxiety in his heart, Bernardo paid for his meal and retired to his room where he spent a restless night worrying about El Zorro.

Zorro also spent a restless night, but not from worry. It was the cold. The temperatures in the drier regions would often get quite low by early morning, and in his haste, he had left his blanket in the thicket where the dogs had attacked. The cape, unfortunately, didn't offer much warmth except during the day. Several times, he woke up shivering. Zorro finally gave up trying to sleep and sat up to reconnoiter. His abraded wrist was throbbing slightly and he was also stiff and sore from six days of steady and hard riding.

The moon was three quarters full and the soft light allowed the outlaw to see the trail he had come along. Zorro was eager to get this confrontation over with. Riding slowly for almost two hours, he finally spied the soft, ghostly glow of embers from a campfire. He left the mare to graze a safe distance from the campsite and stealthily crept close. Zorro marveled at their arrogance. The vaqueros must have assumed they had him totally beaten to have made a fire of such magnitude. He had been able to see its glow for some distance. Zorro moved closer to listen to two vaqueros. He recognized Manuel, the tough and testy vaquero who had ordered him from the mountain trail more than two days ago.

"Manuel," his companion asked, "When are we going to catch this devil? You promised we would have him yesterday." The voice sounded weary.

 _At least I am not the only one tired from this hellacious chase_ , Zorro thought.

Manuel answered, "The saints or the devil must be looking after this one or I have totally misjudged his abilities. Despite the flaw on the horse's shoe, it has been harder than I thought to catch up to him."

Zorro's eyes flashed astonishment at the vaquero'sstatement. _So that was how he has been able to find me!_ This was something he hadn't even considered. He conceded Manual was very good, with a great eye for detail. Again he turned his attention back to the tracker.

"But mind you, we will catch him!" Manuel vehemently asserted. "Another hour's rest and then we go." The other vaquero grunted an affirmative.

 _Oh, you_ _will catch me all right_ , Zorro thought with grim humor. _You'll catch more of me than you really want to. You will wish you had never ventured from your hidden valley.'_

He slipped back down the ridge and returned to the patient mare. Taking out a short knife that he kept hidden in his sash, he pried off each of the horse's shoes, one by one. It was hard using a knife not meant for this purpose and he broke the tip off before he was through. Finally he managed to get them all off. Throughout the ordeal, the mare was very patient. When Zorro straightened his stiff and aching back he had acquired a new appreciation for blacksmiths. "I know that this will be hard on you, little one," Zorro said softly, "but you will make your way safely back to the hacienda and then you can rest."

He took off the saddle and bridle, and using the saddle blanket, quickly rubbed the mare down. "You have been faithful and strong; enjoy your freedom, even if it's for a short while." Zorro rubbed the horse's nose, gathered up his knife and sword and walked back towards the vaqueros' camp.

The outlaw returned just as the camp was stirring. He waited for his opportunity while the men ate a quick breakfast. Zorro's stomach growled; his provisions had been spoiled in the river the day before. Great patience was one of the things that had kept him alive the past few years, so he ignored the grumblings of his stomach and continued to watch. One of the vaqueros left the camp and Zorro saw the chance to make the odds a little better. The man had not taken ten steps beyond the campsite when Zorro grabbed him and knocked him unconscious with the hilt of his sword. Dragging him behind a boulder, he sat him upright against it. _This will cause a little bit of consternation if someone investigates_. He put the man's hat back on his head.

Zorro crept around the other side of the camp where the horses were tethered. They snorted but he soothed them with his reassuring voice. He cut the tethers of all of the horses but one. A saddle blanket and saddle were lying nearby; Zorro carried the tack over to the waiting horse. He stood quietly while he was saddled.

Undoing the final horse's tether, he gathered the reins, and swung into the saddle. With almost no noise, Zorro guided the horse away from the camp to determine how responsive he would be. The gelding reacted to his leg commands and Zorro was satisfied this horse would serve him all the way to Los Angeles. Gripping the pistol in one hand and his sword in the other, he kicked the horse into a gallop and yelling like a demon from an All Hallow's Eve celebration, charged into camp toward his pursuers, looking, he hoped, like some fiend from hell.

Laughing out loud, he realized that he felt like one. His yelling caused the remaining horses to scatter in all directions. One of the vaqueros was so startled he tripped over his saddle and fell among the embers of the dying fire. Screaming in pain, he stumbled out of camp. That left only three men to deal with. Zorro smiled broadly, the odds just kept getting better and better. The man closest to him reached for his pistol, but was unable to use it as Zorro slashed his arm with his sword. The other vaquero fired his pistol but the ball whizzed harmlessly past Zorro's head. Throwing his pistol away the vaquero drew his sword, as did Manuel.

The sporting thing, thought Zorro, would be to fight them on foot, but he didn't feel very sporting at the moment and he let the horse continue its wild rush. Catching Manuel's sword with his own he tossed it into the brush near the camp. The other vaquero lay in a heap where the horse had bowled him over. Zorro leaped from the horse and gathered up the two loaded pistols the vaqueros hadn't had a chance to use.

In desperation, Manuel grabbed another sword. He lunged and parried and pressed the outlaw back towards the fire. Zorro stumbled on the same saddle the vaquero had, but he caught himself. Leaping up, the outlaw began pressing Manuel, his sword flashing so fast that it became a blur in the early morning light.

Zorro realized, as he supposed Manuel had, that he was in no position to carry on a prolonged duel. The endless days in the saddle and the sleepless nights had taken their toll. This confrontation had to end quickly. He knew Manuel would probably never yield, but he had respect for the vaquero who had persisted in the chase all this time. Disengaging for a moment, Zorro paused for breath, "You are a worthy opponent, Señor. Let us each go our own way."

Manuel smiled. "Señor Zorro," he replied. "You have been a thorn in my flesh, but I still salute you, because you are the only man who has ever eluded me. You are indeed a fox." With that he continued the fight with increased vigor, advancing with the desperation of one who knows he can't win. Manuel lunged at the beleaguered bandit and that was when Zorro saw his chance. Parrying the vaquero's thrust just slightly, he lunged forward and pierced his opponent's shoulder with his blade, ending the fight. Manuel slid silently to the ground in shock, clutching the wound that bled between his fingers.

Zorro stood quietly, catching his breath for a few minutes. "Señor," he finally said, "I cannot kill one possessed of such honor, tenacity and sense of duty. I leave you to the care of your men." He cleaned and sheathed his sword, put the two pistols in his sash and mounted the horse. Making a quick salute, he rode in the direction of the Pueblo de Los Angeles.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

At sunrise, the cochero cracked his whip and whistled his team into the slow run that would inexorably take them to Los Angeles. Bernardo had spent a worrisome night, being unable to do anything about the Zorro's situation, except fret. Nightmares dogged his sleep as well. Not having been able to bring himself to eat breakfast, he had nevertheless bought some provisions for lunch. After contemplating most of the night what he should do, the only thing Bernardo could decide on was to continue his journey home and hope his patrón would be able to safely do the same.

His companions in the stage were a very lovely señorita and her chaperone, an older woman whom the señorita addressed as Aunt, and an older patrón, who appeared to be about the age of Don Alejandro. When the señorita addressed him early in the trip, he reluctantly had to signal his inability to communicate. Still she had flashed him a friendly smile. The girl had very long, dark brown hair, which unlike most upper class Californiano women she wore loose, with hair combs on each side to keep it from falling into her face. Her eyes were a bluish gray that were lit with a good humor that was infectious. Just being in the stage with her made his mood lighten a bit.

The duenna had a more serious demeanor, but appeared to be one who could enjoy life also, when she wasn't watching over her niece. Bernardo signed a query to her as to where they had come from. The older woman indicated up north, near San Francisco de Asis. The manservant didn't pursue the conversation, as the duenna seemed a bit uncomfortable trying to sign to him. As the stage began its journey, the señorita undid the scarf at her neck and tied it around her hair.

Invariably, the topic of conversation seemed to center on the exploits of Zorro. The young woman's curiosity about the outlaw was insatiable, although the old patrón was painting a picture that was far from flattering. The older man had a thick beard, trimmed to a point somewhere just below his collarbone, and it bobbed up and down as he described the depredations of El Zorro. It was difficult for Bernardo to continue to act as though he couldn't hear what was going on.

Irate at the old man's inaccurate descriptions, Bernardo waited until he had stopped for a moment and then motioned to the young woman, making a "Z." She nodded and signed a question about his knowledge of the black clad highwayman. With many signs, Bernardo described some of his patrón's exploits. The old man growled his displeasure at the more flattering picture Bernardo was painting, but in that Bernardo had an advantage, he could ignore the hacendado _._ The señorita was fascinated, and even her aunt watched in interest.

Zorro rode ever closer to his destination, avoiding the highway whenever possible. At times, though, rocky hills made it necessary to ride close to the road. During one of these times, Zorro was shocked when a small group of riders came around the bend from the north. Before he was able to find escape in a rocky arroyo, they fired at him. The horse under him grunted in pain and stumbled.

Cursing his foul luck, Zorro noticed that among the pursuing group was Paulo Wheeler. As the animal lunged forward, the masked man jerked his feet from the stirrups, and as the horse fell to the ground, he rolled and leaped to his feet, already running. The rocks were welcome now and Zorro darted in and out and among them. He heard Wheeler order his men to dismount and capture him at all costs. Finding an overhanging rock formation where he could observe his pursuers without being seen, he paused to watch the activities of his enemy. The tumble of boulders almost made a maze; he could see two of the vaqueros, but not the third. Taking careful aim, he fired and heard a vaquero scream as he ducked behind a rock. Zorro dropped from the crag and jerked his hand back as a pistol ball gouged a hole not two inches from where it had been. Turning quickly, he shot the vaquero before the man could reload. Even in his haste, his aim had been true and his attacker dropped without a sound.

Zorro raced past the dead man and then stopped, grabbing the pouch with powder and ball. Then he resumed his flight among the boulders. Another pistol shot smacked against a rock, showering splintery shards everywhere. The shot came as a relief to him, because he could get ahead of the remaining vaquero, especially if the man chose to stop and reload. Now began a strange and baleful parody of hide and seek, a game that Zorro used to play as a child. Only this time if he became 'it,' he would be dead.

After running and scrambling among the scattered rock formations and boulders for what seemed an eternity, Zorro felt the ever-increasing heat draining him of energy, and his muscles burned with the exertion. Deducing that it must be near midday, the outlaw climbed almost to the crest of a small outcropping of rock and peered over the top. He was not able to see anyone following, but the reconnaissance allowed him a quick rest. Keeping vigilant, he realized that Wheeler and the vaquero had not given up their search for him. All he needed to do was make a mistake and the hacendado would have the revenge he craved so badly.

Zorro decided that if he stayed near the highway, the opportunity to "borrow" a horse or other transportation would afford itself. Finally, he caught a glimpse of his two pursuers in the distance riding carefully amongst the rocky ridges and outcroppings. _So that's why I have been able_ _to stay ahead of them_ , he thought with grim satisfaction. They were trying to search on horseback and in this, he did have the advantage, although it was slight.

Keeping the rocks between himself and the two men, he managed to make his way to a spot overlooking the highway. It was perfect. He could see anyone coming in either direction and leap on him before his victim was even aware of his presence. He would also be hidden from Wheeler and his vaquero if they came up from behind.

Wheeler was furious, fuming that he had lost two vaqueros to someone, who by rights, should have already been dead back on the trail. He could only assume that the bandit had also dispatched Manuel and his group, because José, had told him the dead horse had Don Paulo's brand on it.

He took his frustration out on José. "Make sure you find him or I'll flay you!" It was inconceivable that a lone man on foot would be able to elude so many hunters. He jerked his horse around so savagely that bloody foam flew from the animal's mouth.

At first, Zorro heard, rather than saw, the stage coming from the north, and he couldn't believe the incredible fortune this afforded him. He still had a loaded pistol and if need be, could force the driver to accept his company. The stage drove around the bend and Zorro gathered his legs under him to make the jump. It had to be just right. A little closer. Now! He leaped into the air and landed squarely onto the top of the stage among the baggage. Scrambling over boxes and bundles, he jumped into the seat next to the driver and drew his pistol from his sash. "Señor, will I need this or may I ride as a passenger?"

The driver looked into the tired face of the outlaw and shook his head. "Señor Zorro," the driver said, "I have nothing against you or what you do." The man smiled and then laughed. "As long as you are not planning on robbing me, you can put away your pistol and ride as a passenger. In fact, there is a place in the coach if you desire to rest."

Zorro looked for any sign of deceit and saw none. "Thank you, Señor," he said gratefully, "That would be most suitable. Be assured you will be paid well for your generosity, later of course, as I seem to be short of pesos," he added with a chuckle. "Continue to drive for another mile or two before stopping, por favor." By no means did he wish to stop too soon and make it easy for Señor Wheeler to know where he had gone.

Finally, along a rough and rocky section of the road, at Zorro's command the driver brought the stage to a halt. "Go ahead and get in, señor," the driver told him. "I will warn you if anyone tries to stop the coach."

"Gracias, señor," and opening the door, he climbed into the stage, where he met the gaze of the astonished Bernardo. His hesitation was slight, though, and he motioned Bernardo and a middle-aged chaperone to make room for him on the seat. "Por favor," he murmured apologetically as he sat down heavily and with great relief.

Bernardo had heard the thump on the roof of the stage. He listened to all of the speculations, but was as shocked as the other passengers when he looked into the drawn face of his patrón.

Bernardo was a brave man, resourceful, and very intelligent, and while not exactly what one would call 'tender-hearted,' he was certainly close to it. When he saw the condition his patrón was in, he almost wanted to cry. With three days growth of beard and the haggard look of one deprived of adequate rest and nourishment, Zorro did, indeed look the part of a criminal.

The older man on the seat across from him began to protest. "Driver, order this brigand from your stage at once," he blustered. "This man is wanted for many crimes and..."

"Patrón," the driver said simply, interrupting the old man. "I am not aware that this man is wanted for any real crimes," he stated. "Right now he is a paying passenger and he is welcome to ride on my stage. I must now continue." Zorro shot an appreciative look at the driver. With a shout from the cochero, the team began its journey once more.

The patrón continued to complain. "You are that outlaw the lancers have been looking for, are you not? This is inconceivable! This is an outrage. Peaceful citizens cannot even enjoy a tranquil ride on the stage!" he grumbled loudly. "If I was twenty years younger, you would not be sitting there so complacently!"

Bernardo felt Don Diego stiffen next to him. The manservant was surprised by what Zorro did next.

The outlaw whipped his pistol out and held it two inches from the patrón's nose. The old man's eyes widened in shock and his lip began to tremble slightly. "Señor," the outlaw smiled coldly at the man. "I am normally known for being very patient and having a fair sense of humor, but I am possessed of none of those qualities right now. Let me explain something to you and I will see if you understand me." He spoke quietly. "What I did three days ago was justice and the rightness of it will be decided by God. Nothing else matters. I do not abide slavery, and was not going to let it continue." The barrel of the pistol was now only one inch from the man's nose. "I have been deprived of decent sleep and refreshment for three days, and now I am a passenger on this coach just as you are. If I wish to sleep, then I will do so, do I make myself clear?"

The patrón nodded vigorously making the beard bob up and down. The end of the pistol touched the man's nose. "And if you try to do _anything_ while I am sleeping, I may be tempted to blow your head off." He turned to the señorita and her duenna. "Please forgive my incivility, Señorita and Señora." Putting the pistol back into his sash, he gave each of them a smile of reassurance.

"Señor Zorro," the senorita said, "My name is Anna Teresa Hernandez and this is my aunt, AnnaMargarita Hernandez." Zorro nodded to each. "We are from San Francisco de Asis, but your reputation is known even that far north. I wish there were more caballeros who dared to stand up for the rights of those less fortunate, unlike some I know," she glared at the old patrón.

"You are most gracious, Señorita Hernandez, but I am only an outlaw, not a caballero," Zorro replied with a weary smile.

Bernardo tapped Zorro on the shoulder. When Zorro turned to him, the mozo handed him a package. As he opened the package, Zorro drew in his breath quickly, before looking at Bernardo and thanking him with a nod. In the package was the food purchased for lunch. He pulled off his gloves, and the tortillas were quickly consumed, but the oranges were eaten one slice at a time with great enjoyment.

Anna Teresa laughed in a friendly, merry sort of way. "Señor, I have a little bit of wine. Would you care for some?"

"Forgive my table manners," he said as Bernardo handed him a handkerchief to wipe the juice from his fingers. "But, yes, I would, por favor," Zorro answered. Greatly savoring the contents of the flask down to the very last drop, he settled back to rest with a satisfied sigh.

Again he thanked his fellow passengers for their hospitality. And for the first time in three days, he felt some measure of safety. Zorro tried to stay awake and answer questions posed to him by the curious señorita, but his weary body would not allow that. After much yawning, he removed his hat, laid his head on Bernardo's shoulder and fell asleep.

A short while later, the old man'seyes narrowed and he slowly began to reach for the pistol in Zorro's sash. Bernardo grabbed it first and pointed it at the old caballero. The outlaw didn't even stir when the manservant moved, and the fierce look in Bernardo's eyes made the old man sit back again without protest.

Anna Teresa laughed softly. "Señor, you are outnumbered. There are more in this coach who believe El Zorro's deeds are just than those who do not," she looked at him coldly. "I agree with the deaf-mute, leave him alone. Let the poor man get some sleep. If there is justice to be had, let it happen later."

So it was that Zorro slept through the afternoon oblivious to any events surrounding him.

When Wheeler and the vaquero, José, reached the king's highway and still had not found the outlaw, he raged, "Where could he have gone?" he screamed. "The man is truly a devil's spawn to be able to escape this easily. Go back into these accursed rocks and search them again." Several hours later, when no sign of the outlaw had been found, the pair met again on the King's highway.

José had been looking at the tracks on the road. "Don Paulo, perhaps he rode on the stage."

"Explain yourself," Wheeler demanded.

"Here are wheel tracks from something large, and since there is a regular stage that runs from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles, perhaps while we were looking in the rocks, Zorro was able to get a ride on the coach. This coach was southbound, I can tell by the tracks even though they have been disturbed."

Wheeler stared at the ground, unable to see what the vaquero had seen. The hired man's logic was impeccable, though. "Yes, and he did not have a horse," Wheeler thought out loud. "Let us hurry. Perhaps we can catch up with him, if not on the road, then at one of the way stations." They rode a little further and saw where the stage had stopped and someone had gotten on. Wheeler laughed in triumph. "I have you now, Fox!"


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The old patrón held his peace throughout the remainder of the afternoon. In fact, the old man didn't even venture out of the stage during a stop to change horses. Of course, Bernardo hadn't either. He not only wanted to stay on guard to make sure Zorro remained safe, but the outlaw was still using his shoulder for a pillow.

Conversations between the señorita and her aunt remained in low tones. However, Bernardo figured it wouldn't have mattered if there was a fiesta outside; Zorro would have slept through it. His patrón shifted in his sleep, forcing the old man to move his own legs aside. Bernardo saw this as poetic justice.

It was late afternoon. The stage should be arriving at the inn for the night. That would be the most perilous time. Zorro needed a horse. If they could arrange that, and he could get away without being stopped, then Bernardo felt his patrónwould make it home without further incident.

Within an hour, the driver announced their impending arrival at the way station. Anna Teresa reached over and shook the sleeping man's arm. Zorro sat up quickly, grasping for the pistol, which wasn't there. "Señor Zorro," the señorita said with a smile, "We are approaching the way station. I assumed you wished to be awake when we got there."

Bernardo handed him the pistol, and Zorro tucked it back in his sash _,_ nodding his thanks. He knew Bernardo had saved him from some kind of dangerous situation while he slept. He would inquire about it later. "Gracias," he told the señorita. "Indeed, I did. And I must insist on leaving the coach first, por favor."

Zorro noticed that the old patrón was strangely quiet. He suspected that not only Bernardo, but also the señorita had protected him in his sleep. Embarrassed at his vulnerability, the outlaw realized it couldn't be helped. A little lunch and a siesta can do much for a tired and famished man, and he felt better for it.

While the stage was covering the last mile, Zorro asked the young woman, "How long did I sleep, by the way?"

"All afternoon, señor. I would guess about five or so hours. It will soon be dark," she replied. "I do hope you are feeling better." Then she laughed lightly, "You even slept through a changing of horses, señor."

Zorro laughed with her, her humor was infectious. "I do feel much better," he answered. "And I thank you for your hospitality. Patrón," he spoke respectfully to the old man, "I am truly sorry for my rudeness earlier. Please forgive me."

"Pretty words coming from a common bandit and thief," the old man huffed. "I still believe you should be treated as a criminal and not as an honored guest on this coach. Maybe I will yet get a chance to see your execution."

Zorro saw no point in verbally sparring with the old caballero. "Perhaps you will, patrón." The coach came to a stop and Zorro slipped out the side closest to the wall of the inn. Quickly making his way around the back and towards the stable, he realized the old man was right in one thing; he was going to be a common thief. He had to have a horse.

Slipping into the stable, Zorro checked out the animals. Most were coach horses, which were strong, but he needed something quick and agile. Near the end of the line of stalls, he was astonished to see his own horse. Tejas had been well taken care of; he was brushed and fed. An old saddle in the corner of the tack area caught his eye. It was so small he assumed it was an Englishman's saddle. He didn't have time to be particular. Zorro quickly saddled his horse.

As he was slipping on the bridle, the stage driver approached. "Señor Zorro, you must leave. The old patrón is spreading the word you are here." He glanced at Zorro's choice. "A good horse, señor, but I have been told it belongs to a hacendado in Los Angeles, the de la Vega's. They might be upset if they found it had been stolen while in our care, but I think you have greater need right now."

Zorro realized the driver's worry would not be the reason for upset at the hacienda. Father would be worried sick wondering what had happened. _All the more reason to hurry_. "Would you open the door, por favor?"

The driver did so and Zorro led the horse out as discreetly as he could. The driver closed the door and walked back to the inn. Zorro heard a noise from around the corner of the building and saw Bernardo motioning. Leading the horse around the corner to where Bernardo was waiting, and seeing no one else, Zorro pulled the government papers out of his sash and handed them to the manservant. "Somewhat the worse for wear, but make sure you get them to Father. Some are from the governor's office." He noticed a look of surprise on Bernardo's face as he saw Tejas and Zorro laughed. "Don't be so surprised. I am only half a horse thief. I stole the saddle and it is such a tiny thing that I believe it will not be missed. Apparently Tejas showed up near here earlier. Your horse was well used, but she should make it home soon, just minus some shoes." Bernardo looked puzzled. "A long story, but one of the shoes was defective and that was how I was being tracked. She will lead no one to the hacienda, now."

Zorro continued. "I have been warned to make haste. As soon as you get to Los Angeles, please inform Father I am all right. They sent word about finding my horse and, well, you know how he is." Bernardo nodded and studied his patrón with a worried look. "Bernardo, I will be fine. Stop worrying." The outlaw assured him by putting his arm around the smaller man's shoulder. "It will work out, my friend. A man could not have a better compadre."

Zorro started to swing into the saddle. The stirrups were just bits of metal and adjusted too short as well, so he made a short, running leap and vaulted onto Tejas' back. The stirrups could be adjusted when he was well away from the station. The gelding was well trained to respond to leg commands with full tack or without.

He heard a commotion from the inn. Numerous vaqueros and caballeros were milling around the old man from the stage. Some were preparing their horses for pursuit. Sighting him, one of the men raised a shout. The outlaw booted Tejas into a gallop and the horse leaped ahead. There was no doubt in Zorro's mind that once he reached the open highway, he would be able to elude these pursuers, especially since some of them were inebriated. Zorro was startled by a pistol shot ahead of him. He felt a burning sensation on the outside of his left arm.

Zorro shouted to Tejas to increase his speed. Directly in front of him, Señor Wheeler and a young vaquero were attempting to block his way. Their horses looked winded, but still capable of stopping him. They had guessed his mode of transportation and destination. If it had been full daylight, he would have chanced finding a path among the rocky outcroppings, but he could not risk that in the evening dusk.

The outlaw decided his sword would be useless and pulled out the damaged knife from his sash. A shot from behind was too close. Holding the knife between his teeth, Zorro jerked out his pistol and fired at the closest man behind him. His pursuers were more careful now as their comrade fell moaning to the ground. Shoving the pistol back in his sash, he concentrated on the confrontation ahead of him.

Tejas was at full gallop by now and Zorro decided the best course of action was a direct assault. The vaquero was busy trying to reload his pistol and was unprepared for a large horse ramming into his mount. The young man was dumped on the ground, unconscious. Wheeler was undeterred by Zorro's headlong rush, and turned his horse to block the gelding's impetus.

The palomino skidded to a halt and reared. Zorro clamped his legs tightly against the horse's side as Wheeler aimed his pistol point blank at his head.

"Now, I will kill you; you devil from hell." He laughed hysterically.

"Señor," Zorro shouted, "How many men has it taken you to get to this point? You have not put me into the ground yet and I have no intention of letting you do so now." Zorro's recourse was to ride in as close as he could and slash out with his knife. A line of blood appeared down Paulo Wheeler's arm, although it was not enough for him to drop his weapon. Zorro guided Tejas even closer and slashed again. Wheeler roared with anger. His fingers tightened their grip on the pistol before he could aim.

The weapon discharged and a searing flame of pain shot up the outlaw's right leg from his foot to his back. With a cry of rage and agony, Zorro closed his fingers tightly around the handle of the knife and slammed his fist into the side of Wheeler's jaw, dumping him onto the trail, unconscious.

Shoving the knife back in his sash, Zorro drew his pistol and pointed it at Wheeler's head, forgetting it was empty. The pain kept slicing its way up his leg with every jolt the nervous horse was making. But even in pain and anger, Zorro couldn't shoot an unconscious man. Urging Tejas toward the highway, he ran his two antagonists' horses before him, galloping south towards home.

The innkeeper ordered several vaqueros to carry the unconscious and wounded men into the inn. Bernardo had been witness to the entire scene and was desperately afraid for his patrón. He had heard the second pistol shot and seen Zorro knock his attacker out of the saddle. The manservant was shocked when Don Diego drew his pistol on the unconscious man, something Zorro never did.

Bernardo drew the only conclusion he could… the ball had hit its target and shock had nearly driven his patrón to do something he would otherwise never consider. The mozo ran to the place of the fight, praying he was wrong. When he got there Bernardo found a small, dark area in the dust, which he knew was blood. Looking up the highway he saw a few more droplets in the dust. Perceiving the same thing he did, several mounted men saw an easy way to earn two thousand pesos and galloped down the King's Highway in pursuit of Zorro.

Bernardo felt a touch on his arm. Anna Teresa looked concerned, and he realized she had also seen the confrontation. "He was shot, wasn't he?" she asked and went through the motions for Bernardo to understand. Despairing, he just nodded. She made motions again, that of two close friends.

"You really like this Zorro, don't you?" she asked.

Bernardo made the sign of the "Z" and nodded. Suddenly he had an idea. He quickly motioned to the señorita what he had in mind.

She had to make him slow down, but when he went through the motions again she understood. "So you want to rent a horse and try to follow Zorro and help him."

Bernardo opened his pouch. Only a few pesos remained. Anna Teresa understood. "I have enough to help you." She opened her purse and showed Bernardo, then grabbed his hand and they ran to the stable master.

The only animal available was an old coach horse. The man was happy to rent the horse. Glaring at the old nag in frustration, Bernardo had no choice but to accept the animal. With Anna Teresa's help, Bernardo was able to secure a saddle also. Mounting the old horse, Bernardo turned in the direction Zorro had fled, fervently praying his patrón would be able to elude his pursuers until he could find and help him.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Night and Day 4

Zorro traveled several miles at a hard gallop before even looking down to see what damage Wheeler had done. A throbbing pain radiated up his leg with each stride Tejas took. He was not surprised to see the blood splattered on the horses' belly behind the stirrup. The hole in his boot was just about halfway between the toe and the ankle. It seemed incredible to him that such a wound could bleed so profusely and cause such pain. After his father's injury at the hands of Monastario, Zorro understood how quickly a wound, any wound, could kill. His father had almost died. And his own wound? So much bleeding! Zorro jerked back to the present. If something wasn't done, he, too, would die and without the benefit of someone nearby to comfort him. His father had lived because he had help. But Zorro had only himself.

He realized he would have to stop soon and bind his foot, but he was uncertain how many were following him. Getting as much distance between himself and the way station was important right now. That and getting home. He had to get home. It was like the beat of the horse's hooves; each stride seemed to be chanting, "home, home, home." And it distracted him from anything else at the moment.

It was only a short while later that Zorro heard the sounds of pursuit. Knowing a long chase would only be advantageous to his pursuers, he pulled off to the side of the road. In the gloom following the setting of the sun, the outlaw and his horse stood statue still, hoping for anonymity. The rushing group almost passed by before one of the vaqueros noticed him by the side of the road and alerted the others. Zorro counted half a dozen men.

With a grim smile on his lips, he drew his sword and urged Tejas into the melee. Again, the agility he possessed allowed him to disarm and unhorse his first opponent within seconds. Another opportunist found his sword quivering point down in the ground twelve feet away. Zorro's fist sent the man sprawling into the dust after his sword. Despite the incessant, throbbing pain, the outlaw guided Tejas closer to his enemies. With the point of his sword, he relieved one of the vaqueros of his pistol. "Señores, which one of you wants to feel the ball from this pistol? Drop your weapons," he ordered. In answer, one of the vaqueros tried to attack from Zorro's left side. Swiveling in the saddle, he shot his attacker. Before anyone else could move, Zorro had his sword to the throat of the nearest man.

"Señores, I am very serious. Do not force me to injure anyone else. Drop your weapons," he ordered again. The remaining two men complied. "Now dismount and do not try to reach for any of the pistols, this horse is very quick and so am I." Again there was instant compliance. "Gather up your injured compadres and start walking back to the inn."

With shouts and the flat of his blade, he scattered the horses. Wearily, Zorro watched the men walk slowly north for a few minutes, then he reached down and adjusted the stirrups he had not had time to deal with. Gingerly, he stuck his injured foot in and rested the heel on the thin strip of metal, then headed toward Los Angeles once again.

The dusk deepened to a heavy darkness, unrelieved by any moonlight, and still Tejas galloped his easy gait. There had been no other signs of pursuit so he stopped to examine the injured foot. Guiding the horse off the roadway, he gingerly eased himself out of the saddle. When he tried to put any weight at all on the foot, the throbbing of before became knife sharp pains racing up his leg. Grasping the saddle, Zorro waited for the pain to subside. In chagrin, he realized that the foot must also be broken. He thought of several applicable curses in a variety of European languages, but such were useless right now.

Hobbling to a nearby rock, the injured man sat down and gazed at his ravaged extremity. Gritting his teeth, Zorro tried to pull his boot off, but had no success. The abused tissue had swollen and made it impossible for him to get it off. Pulling out his knife, he sawed at the leather. It was very awkward and painful work, and as he continued, the sweat gathered under his mask and trickled down the back of his neck. Finally, the boot leather parted. Laying the knife aside and biting his lip, Zorro yanked the boot the rest of the way off, and was appalled at the amount of blood he had lost. The sock and trousers were soaked up past his ankle.

By the moonlight, he used his sword to cut a strip from his sash and then he bound the injured foot as tightly as he dared. His breath hissed through gritted teeth. _Some of the torments of hell must feel like this_.

Tejas had wandered away to graze. Zorro whistled softly and the gelding came immediately. The outlaw heard the staccato sound of hoof beats coming up the highway. Putting his hand over the horse's nose to keep him quiet, Zorro waited until the sound receded in the distance. At least one other person was following him, a peon most likely. The horse sounded like a workhouse, its steps slow and plodding.

Waiting until well after the hoof beats had been swallowed up in the darkness, Zorro hung on the saddle with both hands, again regretting that he hadn't stolen a decent Californiano saddle with a saddle horn. He pulled his body all the way across Tejas' back before swinging his right leg over the horse's flank. As he sat up, a quick wave of dizziness swept over him, and he waited a moment for it to pass. Zorro gingerly placed his foot in the stirrup. Then he slowly made his way back to the highway.

Zorro tried to work his horse into a gait that wouldn't jar his foot too much. A walk was the best for his injury, but too slow to suit his purpose of getting to Los Angeles tonight. A trot was agony. A slow gallop was the best he could do. Tejas had a smooth rolling canter, which he had been bred for, and it was one of the reasons he liked the palomino gelding for long travel.

Zorro continued for several miles before he had to drop to a walk. In the moonlight, he noticed that blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage. In the back of his mind, it was still hard to believe that such a seemingly insignificant wound could threaten to incapacitate him so easily.

Remembering the lone horseman he had heard earlier, Zorro decided to ride parallel to the highway. Even though the way would be rougher, he didn't think he could survive another encounter with someone trying to catch him. After an hour of slowly walking within sight of the highway, Zorro tried the canter again. This succeeded for several miles until he became too relaxed in the saddle. When the horse stumbled, Zorro slid over the gelding's head and landed on his back with enough force to black out. Tejas nuzzled the outlaw, but when his master didn't respond, he wandered away to graze.

Zorro woke up a little later, stiff and cold. Confused, he wondered what he was doing on the ground. Not only did his foot ache, but his shoulder did, too. He remembered the vaquero's shot had grazed his arm, and he gingerly felt the wound. Zorro was relieved that it was not bleeding.

Then he checked his foot. It was still bleeding, but not as much as before. Jerking what was left of his banda from around his waist, he wrapped it around the existing bandage. Zorro whistled for the gelding and could hear his approach.

Zorro groped for the reins and pulled Tejas' head down towards him. Reaching around the horse's neck, he pulled himself to a standing position. Tejas accommodated him by jerking his head up as Zorro knew he would do. Again, he felt very light-headed. The horse seemed to be dancing away from him, but under his hands, he could tell he wasn't. Zorro went through the same mounting procedure as before, but it seemed to take twice as long.

In dismay, he realized that he would not make it to his hacienda by morning, but he hoped he would be close. Remotely, he remembered again the time when his father had been shot and his lucidity wavered. Father had gone into a delirious state, and Zorro wondered if that was happening to him now.

It was the very quietest time of the early morning hours. The time several hours before dawn. _Can't stop. Have to keep going...,_ were the thoughts that overpowered everything. The vertigo passed and he nudged Tejas into a walk and then into the slow, rolling canter of before. Zorro realized he would have to get farther off the highway. He could not be found near the El Camino Real.

Bernardo had come across a group of six men, three of whom were being helped by their comrades. They admonished him not to try to capture Zorro, because the fox still had teeth. It was hard to keep a straight face while trying to convey that he was deaf and mute. Using signs, one of them maintained Zorro couldn't have been injured, while the others said that even injured, the man was like a devil. Shrugging his shoulders, the manservant finally continued down the King's Highway.

Some time later, Bernardo realized it would be impossible to find Zorro's trail. His patrón had probably left the highway. He surmised that he had ridden right past Zorro and not realized it. Don Diego would have no idea he was looking for him. Even though the moon had risen and was in its third quarter, Bernardo still didn't have enough light to see well. In desperation, he went back down the road a few miles and looked again, but found no more evidence. The mozp wished now more than ever, that he had a voice so he could call for Zorro. All he could do now was find a place near the road and wait for dawn. And pray.

Alejandro de la Vega was enjoying the cool air on the patio of his hacienda when he heard the approach of a horseman. He wondered if it could be Diego. His son was due back from Monterey any day now, and Alejandro looked forward to seeing him again. The hacienda became a very large and lonely place when Diego was gone and sometimes he wondered how he had stood the loneliness when his son had been away in Spain. The hacendado rose in eager anticipation. When the horseman opened the gate, Alejandro was disappointed to see that it was only a lancer from the cuartel. "Good evening, Private," Alejandro greeted him. "What can I do for you?"

"Don Alejandro, I was sent by Lt. Lopez to give you a message that arrived on the late afternoon stage."

Alejandro was puzzled. _Was Diego delayed?_ He held out his hand for the paper.

The note read; 'A palomino horse bearing the de la Vega brand was found near Santo Cristobel this morning, riderless and without saddle. It appeared to have been ridden hard, but it is being well taken care. It will send with the next stage tomorrow.'

Alejandro blanched. _Something has happened to Diego!_

The soldier interrupted his thoughts. "Patrón, is there anything else I can do?"

Alejandro wanted to jump in all directions at once, but one thing he had learned from his son since Diego's return from Spain, was the virtue of taking time to think things out. "Yes, Corporal. Wait a few minutes and I will accompany you back into the pueblo."

"Sí, patrón," the soldier said. "I will wait outside the gate."

 _May the Saints protect you, my son,_ Alejandro thought."Miguel!" Alejandro shouted. "Miguel!"

"Sí, Don Alejandro!"

"Saddle the fastest horse we have," he explained to the servant. "I am going into the cuartel with the lancer. And send Vasquez to me."

"Sí, patron." Miguel ran to do Don Alejandro's bidding. Vasquez appeared in the patio almost immediately.

"You sent for me, Don Alejandro?"

"Sí, Vasquez," Alejandro said. "At the very first light of dawn, I want you to go to the way station Santo Cristobel. A message came on this evening's stage that my son's horse had been found near there. I want you to go and start a search in the area for Diego. You may take as many vaqueros as you need or hire some to help you at Santo Cristobel. I leave that to you, just find my son!"

"Sí, patrón," he answered. "I will prepare now and ride for Los Angeles tonight. I know God will watch out for Don Diego."

"Gracias, Vasquez," Alejandro said.

A short while later, he and the lancer were on their way to the pueblo. Vasquez and his men were prepared almost as quickly.

Paulo Wheeler woke up about midnight feeling as though his jaw had been broken off. He realized it was badly bruised, not broken. His arm had been bandaged. The innkeeper brought him a cup of wine. "Where is my vaquero?" he asked gruffly.

"He is down in the dining area, Don Paulo," the innkeeper answered.

Wheeler got up and looked out the window into the darkness.

"Señor, you have been unconscious for almost eight hours," the innkeeper explained.

"That devil can swing his fist." Wheeler touched the jaw. "Tell me, innkeeper, even though I think I already know the answer; did my shot hit that cursed Zorro?"

"Sí, señor. There was blood in the dust. But Zorro ran off your horses and fled down the King's Highway toward Los Angeles."

"Good, good," he gloated. "No matter about the horses." He laughed, it was an evil thing starting low and grew shrill. He paused to get breath. "But I'll wager El Zorro is cursing the day he tried to interfere with Paulo Wheeler. Send my vaquero up to my room immediately."

A short while later the vaquero knocked on the door and entered. José reported the loss of the horses also, which Wheeler dismissed with a wave of his hand. "It is a little matter at present. We will go to Los Angeles on the stage this morning. If that cursed Zorro dies from his wound, then his body will be found soon enough. If not, then we will hear of a citizen with injuries. This dog; this thorn in my flesh is at least a vaquero, but probably a caballero. We will hear of it. And then I will strike down my enemy with swiftness. My own hand will strip the life from this hell-spawned fox. My own ears will hear him beg for mercy."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

It was very late when Don Alejandro arrived at the pueblo. He banged on the closed gate. "I need to see Lt. Lopez, immediately," he bellowed.

"Patrón," the guard answered. "It is after ten o'clock. Can you please come back in the morning?"

"No!" shouted Alejandro. "This is urgent. Get Lt. Lopez, immediately!"

The guard opened the gate to admit him. Lt. Lopez was just coming out of his quarters. "Don Alejandro," he greeted the older man. "You seem distressed. Please come into the comandante's office and we can talk privately."

"Graciás, Lieutenant," Alejandro followed the comandante into his office, where they both sat down.

Lieutenant Lopez was a fairly young man, in his late twenties, proud of the fact that he had risen through the ranks to the position of comandante in such a short time. Lopez attributed it to hard work and the attention of his patron saint. Others ascribed it to his ability to balance fairness with justice, whether working with his fellow soldiers or civilians. The lieutenant seemed to know when to administer the full measure of the law and when to use mercy. He also had an instinctive talent for diplomacy. It would be needed with Don Alejandro.

Physically, Ricardo Lopez was of medium height, several inches less than six feet. The lieutenant's dark brown eyes took in Don Alejandro's state of agitation and wondered if the patrón had seen more in the letter that came with the stage than he had. "Don Alejandro, may I assume this is about the letter that came with the stage earlier this evening?" he asked.

"Sí, Comandante." Alejandro was grateful Lt. Lopez was taking the time to see him this late. "From the contents of the letter, I believe something has happened to my son, Diego. The horse described is his palomino, Tejas."

"I wondered about that, Don Alejandro. You were expecting Don Diego back from Monterey soon?"

"I had been expecting him to arrive any time," Alejandro explained, his voice tight with anxiety. "He was with Bernardo, but it was only Diego's horse that showed up at Santo Cristobel. Lieutenant Lopez, he is my only child. Can you send men out to help search for him, por favor? And Bernardo, too?"

"I have very few men, but I can send out a small contingent at first light to search along the King's Highway, as far as the way station. I will lead the lancers myself," he assured the old man. "I also think it would be best if you not go out with us, patrón. You need to stay here in case word comes about your son." Lopez felt this was best, especially if young de la Vega was found dead.

Don Alejandro nodded, his shoulders slumping in resignation. He felt he should be out looking for Diego too, but realized the lieutenant was right. "Graciás, Lieutenant," he murmured. "You have no idea how much I appreciate your help. I will take a room at the inn and stay there until I hear something."

Lopez watched the hacendado trudge out of his office. He had come to know Don Diego since his assignment to the cuartel. The young man was always friendly and struck him as one of those caballeros who had a natural grace that didn't come from physical exertion. Young de la Vega had been described as a coward, but Lopez didn't agree. Lopez had more than once seen an altercation peacefully ended by the caballero's eloquent speaking skills, and to him that was not a sign of cowardice. He rather liked Don Diego and his father, Don Alejandro, and was genuinely sorry to hear the news.

The lieutenant looked at his roster and picked three men. He decided they would leave before dawn, so as to be well along the King's Highway by first light. Yawning, Lopez left his office to give the three men their orders. Next he gave Garcia his orders for the morning.

Lopez also noted that this search would serve another purpose too. He had received a dispatch on the stage from the Presidio de Santa Barbara, telling of the destruction of a rancho north of Santa Barbara by Zorro. The outlaw usually didn't operate that far north, but he had been known to work outside of Los Angeles on occasion.

Zorro was the only blot on an otherwise perfect record. Lopez didn't have any real issue with Zorro. The few times he had seen the outlaw at work, Lopez realized that Zorro, although working outside the law, was working to uphold justice. There were times when Lopez was glad Zorro had intervened. He was still obligated to capture the outlaw, since he was a soldier of the King.

Bernardo woke up shortly before dawn stiff and sore. His sleep had been fitful, full of dreams of finding Zorro dead on the trail. Wearily pulling himself into the saddle, he carefully walked the horse along the King's Highway, first on one side and then on the other, hoping to find some clue as to the whereabouts of his master. Shortly after the sun rose over the eastern ridge, he saw something out of place near the highway. Guiding his mount over to the spot, he saw evidence where Don Diego had stopped.

As he picked up the remains of one of his patrón's boots, it was apparent that Zorro had been hit in the foot and the wound had bled a great deal before it had been bound. Hiding the boot under a large rock so no one else would find it, Bernardo remounted the old horse and continued down the highway, again checking carefully on each side. When he had not found any additional evidence, Bernardo could only conclude that either Don Diego had been able to return home or he had wandered far off the King's Highway.

Alarmed, Bernardo saw a lancer coming up the highway. It would certainly not do for one of the soldiers to find Zorro. The soldier, through sign indicated that he was sent to look for Don Diego. Knowing Bernardo was his manservant, he asked if he knew the whereabouts of the young hacendado. Bernardo shook his head 'no' and signed that he, too, had been looking for him. The mozo realized that the only thing he could do now was to go into Los Angeles, where the lancer had indicated Don Alejandro was staying. Bernardo kicked the old coach horse into as fast a gallop as it was willing to go.

Just before the sun rose over the hills, the object of everyone's concern fell off his horse again. It seemed to Zorro that the whole world pitched and swayed like some huge sailing vessel in a storm. He had managed to hang on to Tejas' mane for the past few hours, weaving his fingers tightly in the blondish hair, remaining in the saddle mainly by will power. A little while before dawn brought a fever to alternate with the dizziness.

Tejas nudged the still form, but Zorro remained unresponsive. The horse moved away to graze until his master called him back. Occasionally he returned to where the injured man lay. Several hours later, with the sun shining in his eyes, Zorro sat up groaning. At this point he was somewhat lucid. Gazing at his bound foot, he noticed that the fall had started the wound bleeding again.

Whistling for the horse, he used the stirrup to help pull himself up into a standing position. Laying his head on the saddle, he wondered lethargically what to do next. _Get into the saddle_. But his strength was like water poured onto sandy ground. He tried to pull himself up onto the saddle, but couldn't. _I'm not going to make it home, mi padre_. Continuing to lean against the horse, he thought remotely that Tejas felt warm and he was so cold. It was then he heard the sound of hoof beats. Slowly, he managed to pull his sword from its sheath, but he really wasn't sure what he was going to do with it. Needing both hands to hang onto the saddle, he let the sword drop to the ground.

Then he heard a cheerful voice, "Don Diego, the Saints be praised, I have found…." the voice trailed off when the newcomer saw him. "Zorro!" Lt. Lopez cried in surprise. "How did you get Don Diego's horse?"

"It was at ...the way station. I borrowed it."

Lopez noticed the condition of the outlaw in a glance and rushed over to help him. As soon as Zorro released his grip on the saddle, he sagged against the lieutenant. Lopez lowered him gently to the ground where he could recline against a boulder. "Señor Zorro," he queried the injured man. "What happened?"

Zorro laughed weakly. "You see before you... a man incapacitated by a pistol shot to... to the foot. Ironic, is it not?"

"No, I knew a lancer who accidentally shot himself in the foot. He swore it was the most painful wound he had ever received."

"Apparently...it bleeds a lot, too," Zorro added with a forced laugh. Then he became serious. "Lieutenant, you hold within your hands... two thousand pesos. There is no way I can get away from you... or fight you." He paused a moment before continuing. "What I am going to ask you to do is probably too much to ask…."

Lt. Lopez was sure what the request would be. It would be a difficult decision. "Señor Zorro, before you continue, let me get you something to drink. You look as though you could use it." Zorro nodded his thanks. Not only did the lieutenant bring his water skin, but also a blanket. Zorro gratefully drank the water and accepted the blanket.

The attention of the lieutenant seemed to help the outlaw gather his thoughts a little better, and he continued. "Lt. Lopez, you are fairly new to this area. You know I have never done harm to any innocent person." Lopez nodded his acknowledgment of the statement. Zorro reached for the water skin and drank some more. "Several times you had a clear shot at me and did not take advantage of that. I have saved your life once. Please, I am not trying . . . to hold anything over you. I feel you are a friend. I need a friend right now. I am asking as a friend . . . please do not take me to the cuartel or . . . try to find out my identity. If you promise, I will be content. I know you will keep your word. If you refuse, it will be disaster, but I will . . . understand."

The speech had been a long one for the injured man and he rested while the lieutenant considered the request. Lopez didn't realize Zorro had noticed those things. Capturing the outlaw would certainly make the road to promotion even faster, but how would he deal with the guilt of having caused the death of a just man? The outlaw also needed medical attention soon.

Lopez was glad he ordered the men to split up. None of the other lancers was in the vicinity. There was only one decision Lopez could make. "Señor Zorro, you apparently know me well, considering the short time I have been in Los Angeles. You also understand the position you put me in." Zorro nodded, but said nothing. "I knew before you asked, what your request would be, and in my heart, I knew what the answer would be. I will get my two thousand pesos by earning them, not by taking advantage of one who cannot defend himself."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Zorro let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"I give you my word, Señor Zorro, I will not take you to the cuartel or try to find out who you are. But, you do need medical help. I cannot let you lay out here and die."

"Mission...take me to a mission."

"Yes, there is one not more than a mile from here, I think. A small one, a satellite of the Mission San Gabriel," Lopez said. "Do you think you could ride that far, Señor?"

"…can't get up on the horse," Zorro laughed weakly. "Not able to stay on…. Sorry, need help."

Lopez considered. "I can help you up. Can you stay on long enough for me to get up behind you?"

"I think so. I will try," Zorro answered, then whistled. Tejas trotted over to the two men.

Lopez was incredulous at the control the man had over a horse that wasn't even his own, and stated as much.

"I have watched Don Diego," Zorro explained, trying to cover his mistake.

"If you can put your good foot against mine and take hold of my arm, I will pull you up." Zorro nodded and followed the lieutenant's instructions. Soon Lopez had the outlaw on his feet. "Can I assume the foot is also broken?" he asked.

"Not sure," the outlaw hedged.

Lopez put Zorro's arm around his shoulder and supported him the few steps to the horse.

"Señor Wheeler could not have done any more damage . . . if he had put the pistol to my head," Zorro quipped.

"Señor," Lopez said drily. "I was beginning to think things were desperate, but I see your sense of humor is intact."

"Who said I was trying to be funny?" Zorro retorted with a slight smile and then groaned as Lopez gave him a leg up onto the horse. He hung on, though, and even managed to slide his leg across Tejas' rump before he needed more of the soldier's help. When he was in the saddle he had to close his eyes to control the dizziness. The blanket had partially fallen off and he shivered with cold, even with the sun shining hotly on his back.

"Señor," Lopez said. "I am going to swing up behind you. The lieutenant reached in front of him for the saddle horn and found essentially nothing. Stepping back, he commented, "You will need to move your foot so I can use the stirrup."

When he was in the saddle, Lopez called his own horse over and tied its reins together. Then he gathered the reins of the palomino and started for the mission, whistling for his own horse to follow.

Lopez talked to Zorro, trying to keep him awake. It would be more difficult to make the journey if the man lost consciousness. The outlaw felt hot and feverish against the his body. "Señor Zorro, I received a dispatch yesterday about your little raid up north. What in the world did you do to cause such a commotion?" he asked. Zorro was silent for a few moments and Lopez wondered if he had ventured into territory the outlaw didn't wish to discuss.

"I freed some slaves," came the brief answer. "And the owner was not appreciative." Zorro's wry comment elicited a chuckle from the comandante.

"Wheeler who shot you?" Lopez asked, genuinely curious. His personal admiration of Zorro increased a little more. The lieutenant was impressed that the outlaw would attempt to free enslaved peons without any help, but then, he thought, who at the Presidio offices would listen to a bandit with a price on his head.

"Sí," Zorro answered. "Caught up with me at Santo Cristobel." He paused and as though he understood what Lopez was trying to accomplish, he asked his own question. "Lt. Lopez, why did you become a soldier?"

"My best friend was a soldier, he was like the father I never had. He really cared about me, and did not simply use me as his errand boy. When he had spare time, he taught me to read. I never forgot his kindness. I feel all soldiers should be that way."

"That would explain much, Lieutenant."

Lopez looked around the outlaw. "I think I see the Mission up ahead. We should be there soon." Silently he was glad, this was awkward work. Lopez was tense about being seen with him, also. If anyone found out about his little mission of mercy, the best would be a dishonorable discharge, the worst, a hanging for treason. "Who is the head of this Mission?"

"Father Francisco," Zorro murmured.

Father Francisco had finished mass, eaten a light breakfast and given the novice priests their instructions. Then he went out to enjoy the beautiful morning for a moment before beginning morning classes with the Indian children. The priest was a congenial man, knowledgeable in scientific things as well as religious matters. Physically, he was a tall man, with intense brown eyes that enjoyed all of God's creations. This outlook was infectious; the peons came to him for advice and comfort as well as medical help.

Before he became a priest, Father Francisco had attended several of the most prestigious universities in Europe, including the medical school in Heidelberg. Gravitating toward a career in the medical arts, he was told his skill would enable him to practice in almost any court in the Old World. However, he had become disenchanted with the whole of European mores and morals. He had applied for and been accepted as a novice priest of the Franciscan order and because of his knowledge, rose quickly through the ranks of his order. When the opportunity to head a satellite mission in southern California had arisen, he jumped at the chance. Father Felipe, his immediate superior, realized his talents and sent novice priests to him to gain knowledge in the medical arts.

His one vanity, which he had refused to give up when he became a priest, was his mustache and beard. His superiors would chide him, telling him that he wasn't a caballeroanymore, but in the end, the mustache stayed, the beard grew in the winter months.

One of his students came running around the corner. "Father, Father," Pedro panted, "Someone is coming from that way." The boy pointed toward the north, dancing up and down.

Being a more remote mission, not many strangers came to visit. Pedro was right, except there were two men on the horse, and the one behind, when he could be seen, looked like a soldier. Father Francisco waited patiently. Pedro waited by his side in anticipation.

"Pedro, go tell Father Ignacio to teach the class this morning. I believe I am going to be needed here for a while. Also send Father Joaquin out to help me.

"Sí, Padre," the boy said, sounding disappointed.

The priest noted that the man in front appeared to be injured. As the pair approached a little closer, Father Francisco's eyes widened. There was a mask on the injured man, and that could mean only one thing. "Zorro!" he exclaimed in surprise.

Father Joaquin approached. "What did you say, Padre?" he asked.

"We are about to receive a most renowned patient, Father Joaquin," he answered his companion. "I believe El Zorro is going to be in our infirmary."

"That could be dangerous, Father," the younger priest said in concern.

"Living in a colonial state can be dangerous, too," Father Francisco replied. "I have never turned away the injured and I am not planning on starting now. Come. Help me get him down. It looks as though the soldier is in need of some help."

Lt. Lopez did need some help. Zorro had lapsed into a fevered unconsciousness and it was hard to hold him and control the horse at the same time. The two priests lowered Zorro to the ground.

"Father," Father Francisco told the younger priest, "Go and make sure a bed is ready in one of the guest rooms. I think privacy is in order here. Also, do not announce our guest's identity." .

Lopez looked wearily at the priest. "Thank you, Father. Señor Zorro suggested that you might be able to help him."

Bending down to check the outlaw's injuries, he noted the blood soaked wrappings on his foot. As he was doing what he could to make Zorro comfortable, he asked. "Lt. Lopez, correct?"

"Sí, Padre," was the answer.

"Please answer one question for me and then it would be wise for you to leave." Father Francisco said. "Why would a soldier of the King, and comandante of the local cuartel, bring an outlaw to me instead of taking him into the pueblo?"

Lopez made the same explanation to the priest he had made to Zorro. "All I ask is that you not tell anybody who brought Zorro to you," he told the cleric.

"You do not have to worry, my son. Zorro will be safe here and well cared for and your secret will be secure with me. You had better go now, Comandante."

Lopez mounted his own horse, gathered the reins of the palomino and turned back to the Pueblo de Los Angeles. Now all he had to do was figure out a way to explain this to Don Alejandro de la Vega. It wouldn't be easy.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Father Francisco directed two priests to carry the injured man. "Carefully, carefully. Be gentle with him," he admonished. Zorro was laid on the comfortable bed.

"Father Martin, go get hot water from the cooks. Father Sebastian, get my pouch of medical supplies and instruments. Quickly!" he ordered. After the two novices had dashed off to do his bidding, Father Francisco turned to his patient. He pulled off the outlaw's gloves, throwing them on a nearby chair. Taking a short knife from inside his robe, Father Francisco began carefully cutting the seam of Zorro's pants. As he pulled the material away, he looked at his hands, where he saw blood staining his fingers. He had bled a great deal.

Father Francisco was familiar with the exploits of El Zorro, and while he thought him reckless at times, he still admired what the man had accomplished during the past few years. Father Francisco laid his hand on the injured man's chest and felt the steady beating of the heart. A little fast, and the breathing was a bit shallow, but nothing to be alarmed about.

He gazed at the injured foot, then murmured a short prayer. Carefully, Father Francisco began unwrapping the makeshift bandages, laying them to one side. Carefully, he examined the wound. Father Martin brought in the requested water, along with clean bandages and towels. Taking a cup, Father Francisco partially filled it with wine and then added liquid from a vial.

"Señor Zorro, you are a very fortunate man," the cleric murmured as he worked. "Had this ball gone through an artery, you would have been dead hours ago." It was obvious from the swelling that there was at least one broken bone. But he would have to wait until the swelling had gone down to check for that.

At this point, Father Francisco felt his patient's muscles tighten and heard him cry out in distress. "Madre de Dios, Padre, what torture chamber did you learn your craft in?!" There was a short pause as the outlaw completed the return to full consciousness. "Perhaps if you twisted it a bit more…" Zorro quipped, but his face registered the pain the wound was causing.

Immediately stopping his examination, Father Francisco studied the man. "My son, I was not sure how deeply unconscious you were. I have prepared a potion to let you sleep while I take care of your wound." Holding the mug with the opiate-laced wine, the priest watched Zorro drink it all down. Then he pulled up one of the chairs to banter with his patient until the drug took effect.

"Who did this to you?" Father Francisco asked.

"A hacendado up north of Santa Barbara. I gave his slaves . . . the option of leaving his rancho. I damaged some of his property, too…." Zorro continued to give a short description of his ordeal, and then paused. The priest could see that the drug was already taking affect. "He followed me south . . . with vaqueros . . . and dogs." He looked up at Father Francisco with a slight smile. "I think your medicine . . . is working. Never felt better. So good . . . to sleep. Just . . . let me sleep." As the novice priest entered the room, Zorro's voice trailed off.

As was his habit, Francisco verbally checked off each step of his patient's care. He cleaned and dressed the wound. Removing the trail worn costume, he noticed dried blood on one sleeve. He cleaned and bandaged the wounded arm and then clothed the injured man in a soft robe. The mask and headscarf remained untouched; the hat, the sword, and riding gloves lay on a chair in the corner. After binding Zorro's wounded foot, he then, with a novice's help, placed splints on the foot and leg, and tied them on securely. "It has to be made totally immobile," he instructed the novice. "Or else it will not heal right. And I should like to think that El Zorro has many more tasks to accomplish." He finished by folding two blankets to prop up the leg.

"Father Martin, go tell Father Ignacio to save some broth for our patient," he instructed. "And admonish the other novices to keep quiet about the identity of our 'guest.'" Francisco couldn't help but wonder which caballero this was, for he had no doubt that Zorro was a caballeroin disguise. He he felt he was a shrewd judge of people. While he was at it, he shaved the sleeping man. Now he looked more like El Zorro and less like a common brigand. Covering the unconscious outlaw with a blanket, he sat with him for a few moments.

Some time later, satisfied that Zorro would continue resting quietly, he took the black shirt, sash, and pants and quietly left the room. Down the hallway he met Pedro, the young neophyte, coming toward him. "Pedro," he said, handing the garments to the boy. "Take these and have Pascal wash and fix them as best as he can. Our guest may need them again."

The boy stared at the clothes. "Is it true, then, that El Zorro is the injured man?"

"Sí, Pedro, my son, and when he is better, you can attend to him. For right now, I will." As the boy started to leave, Father Francisco gave the boy the same admonition he had given the novices.

Pedro nodded his understanding and ran to see Pascal.

Francisco got the soup and watered down wine that had been laid out for his patient. Thanking the cook, he returned to Zorro's room. When he went in, he noticed the outlaw regarding him sleepily.

"Father Francisco," he said weakly. It was a statement, rather than a question.

"Sí, my son. Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes, Father." Shivering, he pulled the blanket tighter around him. He glanced at the bound and splinted foot. "Thank you for your care."

"Por nada, but you have a fever. Hopefully it will pass soon," he paused and then continued. "You can count Lieutenant Lopez among your friends, Señor Zorro. He probably saved your life."

"I know that, Padre. I am grateful to him and I thank you for taking me in. I know I make a very dangerous patient for you to have on your hands."

"It would not be the first time a priest has done something unpopular with government officials," Father Francisco chuckled. "Here, my son, you must take nourishment to heal quickly." He held the mug with the warm broth for Zorro to drink from.

"That was like heavenly manna, Father," Zorro sighed when finished. The priest offered him a little wine, which he accepted. Then he laid another blanket over the injured man.

"Father," Zorro made an effort to sit up, which Francisco stopped with a shake of his head. Zorro sank back against the pillow with a sigh. "Why would such an insignificant wound be so much trouble?"

"Nothing made by a pistol ball is insignificant," the priest said sharply. "If you follow my instructions and keep that leg still, you will get to gallivant on the big black stallion of yours again. You also have a broken bone, which will take time to heal," Father Francisco explained. "The one thing that you did right was to wrap the wound and keep wrapping it. The thing that you did wrong was to wait too long to bind it and then you rode all night, aggravating the wound."

"Had to," Zorro murmured sleepily. "Heard horses... following. Had to fight off.… But I am safe. Can sleep now."

"Yes, Señor Zorro, you are safe," Father Francisco said, as the outlaw drifted back into a restful sleep. "Sleep is a good thing, too."

The priest opened the door and found Pedro sitting quietly in front of him. In amusement, he smiled at the boy.

"Please, Father, let me sit with Señor Zorro. I can give him water or soup or whatever he needs."

The priest pondered the request.

"Oh, Father, you do not have to worry about me!" Pedro exclaimed. "I will not tell anyone about Zorro."

The boy looked so solemn that Francisco had to acquiesce. "Pedro, I believe you are the right man to help me. "I do have other duties that need my attention."

Pedro beamed with boyish pride.

"My son, there are a few other things you need to remember if you are going to be my assistant," he explained to the boy. "Do not under any circumstances let Señor Zorro try to get up or move around. And if he becomes delirious, come and get me at once. I will probably be back in a few hours when I have taken care of some of my other duties."

"Sí, Padre," the boy answered and quietly entered the room.

As the door clicked shut, Zorro jerked awake and scrutinized the boy for a moment before speaking. "You must be Father Francisco's assistant. What is your name?"

Pedro told him.

Zorro blinked sleepily. "I think I will be poor company for you, Pedro."

"Oh, that is all right, Señor Zorro. I really do not mind at all."

"Tell me, muchacho _,_ do you live here or do you have a family elsewhere?"

"Both, Señor." Pedro replied. "I live here most of the year learning from Father Francisco, but I do have family in a rancheria not too far away from here. It is just too far to walk home every day. My mother comes and visits me when she can."

"I forgot Father Francisco has a school here," he said wearily. _I feel so tired_. Pedro was asking him something. "What did you say, muchacho?"

"I just wanted to know if you wanted a little water," the boy repeated.

"Sí, Pedro."

But when the boy had poured the drink, he saw that Zorro had already fallen back to sleep. Several hours passed and the restful sleep turned into a fitful and nightmare-laden one. Zorro started talking and crying out. He called 'father' several times and some name Pedro couldn't be sure of. The boy wondered if the injured man was calling for Father Francisco or his own father. The idea of Zorro having a father like anyone else was a startlingly novel to him. He never thought of Zorro having a family; Zorro was just Zorro. Whenever someone needed help, Zorro was there. And when the danger was over, Zorro was gone, like smoke. _But if Zorro has a family,_ Pedro wondered. _Would they be worrying about him right now?_ The thought disturbed him as he watched the feverish man fight his own dreams, crying for help. He took the outlaw's hand to try to reassure him, but even in his weakened state, Zorro still had a strong enough grip to be painful to the boy.

Pedro decided it was time to get Father Francisco, so he quietly closed the door behind him and ran to the priests' quarters.

In the little room, Zorro thrashed about, deep in the grip of his fever. He was being chased by hordes of lancers. Never had he been so accosted; there seemed to be hundreds of was agonizingly slow and the soldiers amazingly fast. It was impossible to shake them and every time he looked back, more men joined the group, including vaqueros who kept shooting at him. The balls sounded like thousands of angry hornets, whizzing past his ears.

Then he saw the group of men being joined by huge wolfish hounds, some as big as horses. Suddenly, Tornado was falling underneath him and Zorro was thrown into a large tar pit. Señor Paulo Wheeler was on the edge laughing his shrill, evil laugh at him, and the dogs were barking and growling, their slavering jaws snapping close to his head. The gooey, sticky tar kept getting higher and higher. It was soon around his face, and he tried to wipe it away. 'Help me,' he cried. But they only laughed at him. The noxious tar was making it hard to breathe; he had to wipe it away. Finally, he succeeded in getting the messy stuff off his face. Now he could breathe. At the same time, all of the men, dogs and horses disappeared. It was then that Zorro fell back into a deeper and more restful sleep.

Pedro found Father Francisco and reported Zorro's condition to him. The priest decided it was time to take care of his patient himself. He sent Pedro to help the cook in the kitchen and to make sure some dinner was set aside for his patient. Then he went to check on the outlaw. He entered the room, closed the door behind him and, turning, looked directly into the fever-flushed countenance of Don Diego de la Vega.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Night and Day 4

Lt. Lopez was a dejected man. The prospect of facing Don Alejandro with the news that his son was still missing filled him with dread. Of all the difficult things he had to do in the past, this was probably the most difficult. But Lopez knew he had no choice. It was his duty to report the news of his son's riderless horse to the hacendado _._ Corporal Reyes had cleaned the blood off of the horse or most likely the old man would have a stroke. Lopez didn't relish the idea of having to tell a lie to Don Alejandro, but he couldn't reveal that he had helped the highwayman, Zorro. The only good thing about all of this was the fact that Diego had not been found injured or dead. Hopefully the young man was coming home by a later coach.

 _I might as well get it over with,_ he thought to himself. "Sergeant Garcia!" he called out. Within a few minutes, the portly soldier opened the door and stepped in the room, saluting. Lopez sighed and looked up. "Sergeant, would you go over to the inn and let Don Alejandro de la Vega know that I would like to see him at his earliest convenience."

"Sí, mi comandante," Garcia said, saluting smartly. He paused, brightened and then asked, "Did you find Don Diego?"

"No, Sergeant, we didn't, but please do not tell Don Alejandro that. I would like to give him the details of my search," Lopez admonished, knowing full well that if the hacendado asked Garcia for information the soldier would more than likely give it.

It was a very short time before there came a knock at the door. "Don Alejandro de la Vega to see the comandante," Garcia called out.

"Have him enter," Lopez answered.

The older man came in, his countenance even more anxious, if that was possible, than it was the night before. "You have not found my son."

A statement, not a question. Lopez gazed at Garcia, who looked penitent. "Sergeant, see to the posting of the details."

Garcia saluted and left.

"No, Don Alejandro. All I found was his horse on the trail." Lopez answered.

"His horse?" Alejandro was puzzled and alarmed. "I thought that it was at the way station."

Lopez shrugged. "I thought so, too. Perhaps it got away from them." Alejandro looked sharply at the acting comandante. The patrón's piercing gaze made Lopez uncomfortable, as though Don Alejandro could figure out from his thoughts, that he was hiding something.

"I want to see my son's horse." Without waiting for Lopez to say anything, Alejandro strode out to the stable to examine Tejas. The horse looked as though he had been well used, so the caballero checked him for injury. It was something to do while he tried to gain his composure and figure out what could have happened to Diego. When he brought his hand up from the inside of the horse's right rear leg, there was the rough feel of something clotted in the horse's hair against his fingers. He scraped a little of the substance and then looked at what he had found. It was dried blood. His heart went cold and his breathing was harsh in his own ears, because he knew he had felt no wounds on the horse.

He swung around to the comandante. "What is this, Lt. Lopez?" he said sharply, showing him the evidence on his fingers. "What are you not telling me?" _Oh, Diego, my son, what has happened to you?_ "How did blood get on my son's horse?" he demanded, more loudly.

"Don Alejandro," Lopez told the distressed man, mentally berating himself for not seeing to the care of the horse himself. "I did not find Diego and this is not Diego's blood, I swear it." The old man looked a little relieved, but the lieutenant knew de la Vega would not be totally satisfied until he knew the truth. He hoped Don Alejandro was discreet, because he felt he at least owed the man a partial explanation to help assuage his fears. "Please come back to my office and I might be able to explain."

After they were back in the comandante's office, Lopez sat on the edge of his desk, gazing into the hacendado's eyes. "What I am about to explain to you would ruin my career if anyone found out. You must keep this to yourself. I am telling you only because I think it will ease your mind about your son, Diego . . . and because I think you are very discreet." Alejandro nodded, his emotions running the gamut between fear for Diego, curiosity about what Lopez was going to tell him and anxiety that had built for the past several days.

"While I was out trying to find your son, I came across Don Diego's horse and, I thought Don Diego, but I discovered Zorro instead," Lopez explained. "It is Zorro's blood on the horse, not Diego's. So you see, Diego is probably fine somewhere and will be home soon, Don Alejandro," he added to comfort the old man.

Alejandro blanched. The blood rushed through his chest like a tidal wave and he felt the reality of the room waver. _I have to get control of myself,_ he thought desperately. He kept his face as passive as he could and was glad the acting comandante had closed the shutters and that the room was dimly lit. He wanted to scream, _You fool, Lopez, it_ _is_ _Diego's blood on the horse!_ He struggled to keep his composure, and finally succeeded. He said calmly, with only a slight quaver in his voice, "I am relieved also, Lieutenant, but I count Zorro as a friend, and so it grieves me terribly to hear this."

The thought occurred to Alejandro that Lopez may have brought Zorro to the cuartel, but the comandante's actions belied that. "What happened to him?" was all he asked. _I can't believe that I'm babbling like this when my son needs me!_

"Zorro had been shot by an assailant and had bled quite a bit. He was also feverish," Lopez answered simply.

"What did you do when you found him?"

"Zorro exacted a promise not to take him to the cuartel or to try to find out his identity. So, at his suggestion, I took him to the safest place he could be right now." Lopez continued to explain.

"And where would that be, Lieutenant?"

"That I cannot tell you, Don Alejandro. That was part of the promise. But I can tell you that Señor Zorro is in excellent hands. He couldn't be taken care of any better."

Alejandro let out his breath in a great sigh. _Except by his father,_ he thought, bitterly. Musing, he remembered how Diego and Zorro had taken care of him when he was wounded, although at the time he wasn't aware that they were the same person. He reassured the comandante. "You are a good man, Lt. Lopez, and I thank you for your efforts in finding my son. Please let me know if you hear anything further."

After he had returned to his room, Alejandro thought about the comandante's words and realized he was right when Lopez said Zorro was being safely taken care of at a secret location. It just didn't make him feel any better. Alejandro wanted desperately to be with his son; needed to be by his side. The old don remembered the times when Diego had hurt himself as a youngster. He or his wife had been there to make sure he was all right, to clean his scrapes and cuts. Bowing his head in a brief prayer, he realized that all he could do right now was trust in God and hope to be able to see Diego soon.

There was another knock at the door. "Enter," he said in a low voice, still mulling over the day's events. His irritation grew when no one came in. "I said enter!" he called out and yanked open the door. He also jerked in Bernardo, whose hand was gripping the latch.

"Bernardo!" Alejandro finished dragging the disheveled manservant into his room. "Tell me what happened to Zorro!" he begged the mute, as he closed the door. "Lt. Lopez told me about finding him wounded and taking him to a secret location to be cared for. But he wouldn't tell me where."

Bernardo went through the signs, trying to explain what he had heard about the past four days. He explained how Paulo Wheeler had ambushed Don Diego and shot him. He told of his own efforts to find his patrón during the night, only coming across his routed pursuers instead.

When Bernardo was done, Don Alejandro shook his head. "I cannot believe the risk he took." Then he added softly, "And I cannot believe what he has been through. But where could Lopez have taken Zorro?" Alejandro mused aloud as he paced the room.

Bernardo had been thinking about this, too. Given the area involved, he could think of only one possibility. He tapped Don Alejandro on the shoulder and when he got the patrón's attention, he put his hands together in the attitude of prayer. Don Alejandro frowned in concentration and then suddenly brightened. "A mission, of course, you are absolutely right. We must go visit Father Felipe and see if he has heard anything."

Bernard shook his head vehemently, pointing to himself, trying to convey that nothing greatly out of the ordinary must be done. Señor Paulo Wheeler was still very much in the mood for vengeance, and would be looking for clues to the whereabouts of Zorro.

Alejandro sighed. He knew nothing of this Paulo Wheeler, but if he understood Bernardo, he was as evil, almost, as the devil himself. And he realized Bernardo was right. The manservant sometimes made calls to the local missions to take cattle or money donations; therefore it would be more appropriate if Bernardo went.

Bernardo signed that he would go, not to San Gabriel, but to the smaller, more remote mission run by Father Francisco first, since that was nearer to the area where he had been looking for Don Diego. Alejandro nodded his agreement, and then said, "It will be hard not to take a pistol and shoot this Señor Wheeler down the first time I see him. Perhaps it would be better if I let the acting comandante know of your arrival without word of Diego and that I would rather await any news at the hacienda." Bernardo nodded in agreement _._

Bernardo then went on to sign that he would stay until the evening stage came in and get his luggage. Then he would go to the mission first thing in the morning with some kind of donation. This plan would also allow him to see if Señor Wheeler had arrived in Los Angeles to look for Zorro, because Bernardo suspected Wheeler would waste no time coming to the pueblo to finish what he had started.

Alejandro agreed with the plan and gave Bernardo some money for the donation. "If you find him, Bernardo, tell him that…." He had to swallow several times to keep his emotions at bay. "Tell him that I love him," he finished, his voice almost a whisper.

Señor Paulo Wheeler and his vaquero, Jose, arrived at the Pueblo de Los Angeles in the late afternoon. Securing a room for himself at the inn he then proceeded to go into the dining room to get dinner and listen in on conversations. The innkeeper was mentioning to someone about the terrible tragedy of young Diego de la Vega's disappearance and his horse showing up riderless. He mused on the name, wondering where he had heard it before. Then he motioned for the innkeeper to come to his table.

"Señor, I could not help but hear the comments about the unfortunate young man _,"_ he said smoothly. "Who is this Diego de la Vega?"

"Don Diego is the only son of Alejandro de la Vega, the wealthiest hacendadoin this area," the innkeeper explained. "The young man was conducting business in Monterey for his father and somehow disappeared while returning home. Only his horse has shown up, and poor Don Alejandro is beside himself with worry."

"Sí, that would be a hard thing for a father to have to deal with," Wheeler concurred, effecting a sorrowful look. "Gracias, señor."

Wheeler was elated. He remembered José telling him about the vaquero who had appeared shortly before Zorro's raid. The vaquero who had said he was about the business of the Rancho de la Vega. The vaquero that Jose offhandedly mentioned seemed to have the bearing of a caballero. The vaquero, who in all likelihood was not a vaquero, but Diego de la Vega. All of the strange little coincidences were coming together, but he needed to be patient and keep an eye on the comings and goings of members of the de la Vega household. Paulo Wheeler knew intuitively that if he remained watchful, he would have the opportunity to find and kill Zorro.

Father Francisco put his assistant in charge of evening vespers, deciding that only he should stay with Zorro until the fever broke. Now that he knew the identity of the outlaw, the priest felt an added burden. This was a secret he must never divulge and no one else must find out. Don Diego moaned and thrashed and cried out most of the night. Even in his weakened state, it was hard to restrain the man and to keep him from doing further damage to the broken foot. Occasionally Diego would lapse into a deep, peaceful sleep and then the priest was able to rest also, with his chair leaning against the door. Sometimes Diego was semiconscious and would carry on a conversation with him, but it was hard to understand what he was saying. It was like a jumble of things that were part Zorro and part Diego de la Vega.

Finally near dawn, while he was dozing, Diego's fever broke. Father Francisco jerked awake at one point and saw Diego gazing lucidly at him.

"You know," Diego said simply, and the priest realized that he had fallen asleep in the chair with the mask in his hand. He handed it back to Diego.

"Diego, my son, you took it off when you were delirious," the cleric explained. "No one else knows and I am treating this as I would a confession."

Diego nodded his thanks and threw off one of the blankets. "Father Francisco, please do not tell me to lay back down," he said as he struggled to sit up. "I must move; I am not used to lying around, even though some people seem to think that is all I do," he added with a slight smile that ended in a grimace of pain.

The priest helped the injured patron to get into a more comfortable position, and then gave him some watered down wine. "You realize, Diego, that you are the last person I would have guessed to be Zorro. I suppose you have carefully planned it that way."

"Sí, Padre," Diego answered, "When I realized what was going on in the pueblo, I felt that playing the part of a weak and indolent caballero was the only way to keep suspicion from falling on myself or my family. It has been hard knowing that people are calling you a coward behind your back. I was not raised that way." Diego continued reminiscing. "And until he knew, it drove Father insane, thinking his son had become a weakling, and that, too, caused me some amount of guilt."

"Sí, knowing your father, I am sure that is so, but please, never forget all of the good that has been done since you became Zorro." Father Francisco jerked around at the sound of a knock at the door. Turning back to Diego to tell him to put the mask back on, he saw that it was already done. He slipped out the door and faced Pedro.

"Father Francisco," the boy asked. "How is Señor Zorro this morning? May I stay with him, por favor, if he is better?"

The priest chuckled at the child's exuberance. Zorro was obviously his hero, and the cleric saw no reason to do anything to discourage it. "Pedro," he explained. "Señor Zorro is much better this morning. The fever has broken and although he is still weak and tired, I think he is well enough for you to help him today."

The boy broke into a wide grin and then suddenly remembered why he was looking for Father Francisco in the first place. "Oh, Father, I almost forgot to tell you," he said. "The manservant of Don Diego de la Vega has come to see you. I think it is about a donation from the de la Vega family."

As he followed Pedro to the small chapel, the priest somehow guessed this was probably no coincidence. Father Francisco dismissed the boy, telling him to see to breakfast for the injured man. When he tapped the manservant on the shoulder, Bernardo turned and gazed at him. Anxiously handing the priest a pouch with some coins, he made signs to indicate it was a donation from Don Alejandro.

Bernardo looked imploringly at Father Francisco, wondering how to ask the question that burned in his mind. If Don Diego was here, would the priest know who it was under the mask? Knowing of no way to discreetly ask about Zorro _,_ Bernardo simply explained in sign that Don Diego de la Vega had disappeared. He wondered if his master had been found and brought to the mission. Bernardo stopped signing and waited anxiously. Unfortunately, if Zorro was here, then it was very likely that the priest would tell him no about Don Diego and the manservant would be no further along in his quest to find out about his patrón's condition.

The priest knew that Bernardo had to be desperate to come here looking for young de la Vega, but when he looked even more intently into the manservant's eyes, he realized that Bernardo wasn't just looking for Don Diego. The manservant was aware of Don Diego's dual identity and he was looking for Zorro. _That makes a great deal of sense, having a deaf-mute servant who can be trusted to help. No one will be able to pry the secret from this man,_ the priest thought. Achieving what Don Diego had been doing would be very hard to accomplish alone.

Bernardo was frantic, stepping restlessly from one foot to the other. Now as he stood before Father Francisco, he simply asked again if Don Diego was at the mission. Why didn't the priest understand him? At the very least, the padre should be informing him that his masterwasn't here, in which case, Bernardo didn't know what he would do. Somehow, he and Don Alejandro had to know. Don Diego's father was counting on him, and of course, he wouldn't even dare imagine that his patrón could have died. That was totally unthinkable. Recklessly, Bernardo began signing a query about Zorro, when Father Francisco stopped him and motioned for him to follow.

At the door of a small room, he stopped and motioned for Bernardo to go in, telling him in sign that he would return soon. Bernardo, looking puzzled, carefully opened the door and saw Zorro sleeping peacefully on the bed. A great smile broke out on his face. Don Alejandro would be so relieved. _He_ was so relieved. Suddenly all of the anxiety and tension of the past several days drained away and all that was left was a lethargy that was punctuated by a gratitude to the Almighty that Don Diego was safe at last.

Watching his patrónsleeping tranquilly soon made him so somnolent that before long Bernardo was also sound asleep in the chair next to the bed. When Father Francisco looked in a short while later, he smiled in understanding. There was more here than a servant/master relationship; he firmly believed that these two were also friends who would give their lives for each other. The priest backed out of the room, knowing that Señor Zorro was in excellent hands.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Night and Day 6

When Zorro awoke again, he was startled to see Bernardo in the chair next to him, sound asleep. Quietly reaching over to the table to get the some of the wine Father Francisco had left, he pondered how Bernardo had figured out where he was. When he laid the cup back down, it made a small noise. Bernardo woke with a jerk. Smiling broadly, the mozo signed a question to Zorro, 'How do you feel?'

"You see this and ask a question like that?" Zorro pointed to his bandaged and splinted foot. He sighed. "I feel very weak and tired, and I am sick of it. But, thanks to the good Father, I feel much better than I did a few days ago." Zorro frowned in concentration. "How long has it been since that cursed Don Paulo ambushed me?"

Bernardo indicated that two days. Zorro was incredulous, "Is that all? Father Francisco is a better doctor than I imagined. All I can remember are nightmares and cold that seemed to go on forever."

Bernardo signed that Wheeler had arrived by stage in the pueblo the evening before, along with his vaquero. Señorita Anna Teresa had arrived also, very disgusted with the company she had to keep all the way.

Zorro pitied the young señorita, but the implication of Wheeler still pursuing him? "Will that man ever stop?" he asked in exasperation. Bernardo could only shrug, not having an answer to that question.

"Of course, you realize as soon as I appear as Diego with an injured foot, he will guess my identity immediately, along with Lieutenant Lopez. We have to make a separate event line for Diego that will explain this."

Bernardo signed that he could don the mask and ride as the outlaw. Zorro nodded and said, "Sí, after I return home as Diego, that will help. But I, as Diego, have to be found somewhere else and not shot."

Bernardo made signs of something breaking and pointed to Zorro's foot.

"Sí, the pistol ball broke a bone, what are you trying to say?"

Bernardo made the motions of someone on horseback and then someone next to a horse. Then he pantomimed a horse stomping on something. He paused to see if Zorro understood.

Zorro stared at Bernardo for a moment and then started to laugh; real laughter, something missing for almost a week. "Bernardo, you have a terribly wicked sense of humor. That will be an embarrassment for years to come. Imagine a caballerogetting stomped on by his own horse. I agree. That will be the story of the foot. When we get home you will probably be the only one changing the dressing anyway."

"Now where should I be found? It should not be too far away." Zorro and Bernardo thought for a while. "Near the Mission Santo Cristobel," the outlaw announced with a snap of his fingers. "We will have to work out the details with Father Francisco."

Bernardo realized he was looking at a man who had finally been able to share a portion of a huge and terrible burden. The chase from north of Santa Barbara had to have been harrowing. Then he realized what Don Diego said about Father Francisco. _How in the world can the priest help in the plans to conceal Zorro's true identity when he does not know it? Unless, of course, he does know it_. The manservant made his concerns known to his patrón.

"Bernardo, I was delirious with a fever and I pulled the mask off. Father Francisco promised to treat the revelation as he would a confession. I trust him, my friend. We will need his aid to make our plans work." Bernardo nodded. Zorro continued, "I believe it would be wise to keep your secret intact, though." A sudden thought came to him. "How is Father taking all of this?"

The manservant made the signs for Lt. Lopez and the story of how he found someone else with Diego's horse.

Zorro groaned. "I'll wager Lt. Lopez thought he was doing Father a great favor by telling him that."

Bernardo nodded and then explained how they had figured Father Francisco would know where Zorro was. That was how he had come to the mission.

Zorro yawned. "Very astute, Bernardo, I hope no one else is able to deduce where I am, especially Paulo Wheeler. You must go to Father now and tell him I am fine. We will work this out so I can finally come home," he said, trying to stifle another yawn. "I am ready to go home. Oh, and Bernardo, when you come back, bring simple vaquero trail clothes. That happens to be what I was wearing before all of this mess started."

It was Bernardo's turn to stare at his patrón. The mozo made signs, which showed his amusement at Diego wearing anything so plain.

"Go ahead and laugh. I may have been insane to travel that distance alone, but not so much I would advertise my status. Now go reassure Father and let me sleep. That seems to be all I've been doing lately, and about all I'm good for," he added with a chuckle.

As Bernardo was leaving, Father Francisco arrived with breakfast on a tray. Bernardo made signs thanking him for helping Zorroand then he left.

"I see that you are ready for another siesta," Francisco said lightly.

"Sí, Padre," Zorro yawned again. "I think I am getting enough sleep for two lifetimes."

Father Francisco handed him the tray. "Try some of this first," he suggested. "And then I will need to check your foot."

There was a variety of different foods. Zorro sampled everything that was there, but was unable to finish everything. "Padre, this is excellent."

"I will pass your compliment along to the cook."

Zorro grew more serious. "Father Francisco, we need to discuss how to get me off your hands without arousing suspicion as to my identity."

"My, son, I guarantee you are not the only one thinking about this. You rest and then we can plan."

"No _,_ Padre, I do not think my enemy will allow us the luxury of extra time." He explained in more detail what had happened at Paulo Wheeler's rancho, and the nature of the man himself. "Bernardo and I have some ideas, but I think they need to be implemented tonight."

The priest was appalled. "You should not be up so soon, my friend. You have come so far in such a short time. No, there is too much risk to you."

Zorro shook his head. "No, Father, we have to risk it; the longer we wait, the more likely it is that Diego and Zorro will be linked. And also that Don Paulo will figure out where I am. You saw how easily Bernardo was able to deduce my whereabouts. Consider how many young Indian children and priests this man could kill while getting to me. Father, I guarantee you, he would not hesitate to kill anybody. I have enough guilt over those who have died already; I have no wish for the lives of those here to be added to that guilt."

Father Francisco thought carefully and had to concede that the man was right. "Tell me what your ideas are, and let's see what is involved."

Zorro explained what he and Bernardo had discussed. "Do you think the padre at Santo Cristobel would be able to get Diego's time of arrival a little mixed up?" he asked with a smile.

Father Francisco frowned. "No, not a mission; too many people involved, and besides, that mission closed down last year. But I do know someone who might help. And she would have absolutely no qualms about lying, especially to soldiers or patróns _."_

"Uh, Father," Zorro hesitated a bit. "Iam a patrón _._ It sounds like this friend of yours does not particularly like those of the upper class."

The priest chuckled. "You are right, my son, but I have helped her and some of her people at times without asking for recompense. Perhaps it is now time for a payment, although I think seriously that Senora Barosa will do this without being reminded of payments." Zorro gave the cleric a questioning look. Francisco continued. "She is Marlena Barosa, an old gypsy who lives in seclusion not far from the way station Santo Cristobel. It should be fairly simple. We take you to her as Don Diego. The story is that she or one of her people found you near death in the hills, after your horse had injured you. She sent for me to set the broken bones and you are then able to go home as soon as you are 'discovered.' You will be reunited with your father, who has been anxiously awaiting word of you."

"Provided Senora Barosa is willing, I think it is a good plan. I believe there is probably nothing else we can do, except leave the rest in God's hands."

Father Francisco had taken off the splints and started to unwrap the injured foot. "I will be as discreet as possible," the priest said. "I would just as soon no one know we are leaving, at least right away." He looked sternly at Zorro. "As soon as I have finished checking your foot, I will insist that you rest and sleep."

Carefully taking off the rest of the bandages, he noted with great satisfaction that there was no bleeding and the swelling had gone down. "This is going to be painful, but I have to find out where the broken bone is, and make sure it is in place for proper healing." The priest felt the wound as gently as he could, but could tell from the ragged breathing of his patient that it was not gentle enough. "I am very sorry, Diego, let me send for something to relieve the pain and let you relax."

"No, Father," Zorro hissed through gritted teeth. "Just get it over with."

"Very well, but you will have to hold completely still."

Zorro nodded, bit his lip, and held tightly to the sides of the bed.

It didn't take long for Father Francisco to find the break. Incredibly, the pistol ball had not shattered the bone. The passage of the projectile had caused a simple fracture in the nearby bone. Father Francisco sighed deeply in relief. Manipulating the foot to make sure the bone was straight, he felt it slip into place. Zorro let out a sharp cry of pain, but was able to keep from jerking his leg. "Señor, you are a most fortunate man. I was afraid a shattered bone would have been impossible to set and heal normally, but this is a simple fracture that will heal without a problem. Praise the Saints."

"Remind me . . . to be thankful . . . when the pain goes away," Zorro grimaced. He tried to relax against the pillows as the priest cleaned, dressed and rebound the injured extremity, and then resplinted it.

"My son, I appreciate your ability to remain so relaxed during my ministrations."

"Remind me to stay on your good side, Father."

Father Francisco appreciated the injured man's attempt at humor. "I should not have to do that again. Now I want you to sleep. I will take care of the details of our plans. Your job for the remainder of the day is to get as much rest as you can."

"Sí, Padre," the outlaw yawned again.

Zorro had finally run out of arguments, Father Francisco noted with satisfaction. The priest found Pedro in the kitchen helping Father Ignacio prepare the midday meal. "Pedro, go and see if the crutches have been finished yet and also find out if our guest's clothing has been repaired."

"Sí, Father," the boy dashed out of the room.

Father Ignacio looked reprovingly at the priest. "I pray your patient is not responsible for bringing down the whole cuartel on us. It won't take many excuses for the government to take more mission land away."

"Father Ignacio," the padre chided. "Surely you are not suggesting that we should have left him by the road to die."

"Oh, no, of course not, Father," Father Ignacio replied. "I am worried, that is all,"

"Leave that to God," Father Francisco admonished and left for other errands.

In the early afternoon, Father Francisco returned to Zorro's room with clothing and a pair of crutches. Zorro was delighted to have the means to get out of bed. It gave him a sense of increased independence, limited though that was. The priest wanted him to wait until later in the afternoon to try the crutches, but Zorro insisted on trying them immediately. Father Francisco helped the highwayman ease the splinted foot off the side of the bed.

"Under no circumstances are you to put any weight on your foot at all," he warned. "Now take my arm and let me pull you up."

Zorro still felt a little dizzy, but hung on to the priest's arm until it had passed. He was grateful the cleric didn't comment about it. Reaching for the crutches, he tried them. They were exactly the right length.

"Two very tall trees sacrificed themselves to provide these crutches." Father Francisco chuckled at his own joke. Zorro laughed along with him. The priest kept a very close eye on the outlaw.

Zorro tried to walk with them, but was slightly off balance. He tried again, successfully this time. After a few steps, he sat back down on the bed, worn out.

The priest handed him a pair of calzoneros, the button up pants all caballeroswore. This pair was simpler, such as vaqueros sported on special occasions. With Father Francisco's help he was able to slide the trouser's over the splinted leg. Next Father Francisco handed Zorro the newly repaired black shirt. Off came the robe and on went the shirt. "Much better. Graciás, Father."

"I have a small carriage which will be ready for us to travel in after evening prayers," the priest explained. "We should be able to get to Señora Barosa's home just before dawn. I have a dose of narcotic prepared to relax you on the journey."

Zorro shot an irritated look at the priest. "I will be fine. I have no wish to be drugged again, Father."

"My son, this will be a fast and possibly a rough journey. If someone stops us, you would be unable to do anything to help anyway." Francisco paused to think of the right thing to say. "Don't you understand, Diego, I am trying to get you well. You are needed! I feel God directed the passage of that pistol shot. The bone will heal normally and you will be able to help many other people in the guise of Zorro."

The outlaw was surprised at the priest's vehemence. It negated any arguments he could make. "All right, Father, how can I argue with that? But only if the journey gets rough. I really get no enjoyment feeling more helpless than I already am now."

"Agreed, all I ask is for you to trust my judgment in the matters of your health," the priest said, mollified. "I will send Pedro in with some late lunch. Then there will be nothing else to do but relax and wait."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

When Pedro arrived with the midday meal, he saw Zorro practicing on his crutches, back and forth, back and forth in the little room. The outlaw was concentrating so hard he didn't see or hear the boy. Pedro stood by the door, quietly watching until he saw Zorro sway and lean against the wall. Quickly putting the tray down, he helped the injured man back to his chair.

Sitting down heavily, Zorro sighed. "Graciás, Pedro. I am glad to have these crutches to help me get around, but I will also be glad to be relieved of them and walk normally again," he commented and then smiled conspiratorially at the boy. "Father Francisco would have taken the hide off me with his tongue if he had come in the room instead of you."

Pedro laughed at the thought of anyone tongue-lashing Zorro.

"Now what have you brought me this afternoon, muchacho?"

Pedro gave him the tray and then said, "Unless you need me, I have been asked to help in the kitchen."

"Graciás, Pedro, you have been a big help to me today. You go on, I will be fine," Zorro reassured him.

"By the way, Señor Zorro," the boy said with a smile, "I will be glad when you are well and can be rid of them, too."

"Thank you, Pedro."

Zorro savored the beef and gravy on his tray. He couldn't find fault with the cook at this monastery. Although he knew the smaller missions didn't have the herds of livestock the larger ones did, somehow Zorro figured that Father Francisco was making sure the best was being served to his patient. That was another reason for getting their convoluted little plan in action, he thought to himself, as he used a bolillo to mop up the last of the gravy. He felt he was taking food from those who most needed it—the children.

Zorro set the tray aside and yawned. Once again he felt tired and lethargic, and, to his disgust, he was ready to sleep again. The bed didn't look the least bit inviting, though, so he leaned the crutches against his left leg, and, using them as a prop for his right leg, leaned back in the chair and quickly fell asleep.

Through the afternoon, Zorro alternated sleep with practice on the crutches. Sometimes Pedro came in to visit with him and invariably the boy would ask the masked man about his exploits. This was somewhat frustrating, because he really didn't want to give the boy the idea that he was doing anything glamorous. He certainly didn't like to sound like he was bragging. Finally, Zorro sat on the chair and propped his leg up on the crutches. "Pedro, how do you think I got this?" he asked pointing to his injured foot.

"You were shot, Señor," the boy answered. "In a fight."

"Sí, Pedro, in a fight for my life. The man was aiming for my head," Zorro said.

Pedro couldn't help it. He started giggling. "The man had very poor aim, no?" Pedro quipped before Zorro could say anything.

He gazed at his companion for a moment and then, he too, began to laugh. "Pedro, you have a quick wit about you. No, his aim was quite good, I was just able to knock his arm down." They laughed for a moment. "Pedro, I do the things I do in order for everyone to be treated justly. I do it behind a mask because I could not see any other way to accomplish the job. I guess swordfights and chases on horseback seem exciting, but you know, sometimes it is very discouraging. There is no joy in having to kill people and sometimes I have had to do that."

Pedro's countenance had become so serious that Zorro put his hands on the boy's shoulders and told him, "But, you know, Pedro, I do feel good when I can help somebody who needs my aid. You are doing that and you do not even have to wear a mask." Being a bachelor, he sometimes wondered if he was saying the right things to children. He enjoyed Pedro's company and appreciated his help, and did not want to say anything to hurt the boy's feelings.

Pedro looked puzzled. Zorro laughed, "Pedro, you are helping me. I am unable to accomplish anything without your help right now, muchacho. Graciás." Pedro brightened considerably.

The evening meal came late, in anticipation of the late night journey. Afterward, Zorro again felt tired, and, resigning himself to the need to sleep often, he leaned back in the chair and was soon doing just that.

A hand on his shoulder woke him up. "It is time to go," he heard Father Francisco say in a low voice. "Pedro told me you were practicing walking with the crutches. Did you want to try this without help? I can assist you if there is need."

Zorro answered him by getting up on the crutches and motioning to the priest to lead the way. Father Francisco went down a long hallway and to a door that led outside to the back of the mission. With the concern of a priest and a physician, he kept looking back to check on the progress of the outlaw and could see that the steps were steady, and there seemed to be no danger of him losing his balance at present. Father Francisco would not interfere unless he had to, realizing that Diego was a proud and independent man.

The short way from the mission door to the old carriage was rutted and strewn with gravel, and he continued keeping a careful eye on Zorro. At the side of the vehicle, the outlaw stopped and leaned against the carriage for a short rest. "Now, my son," the priest said, "this is the difficult part. Let me help you."

"You will get no argument from me this time, Padre." Zorro told him with a tired smile. "But I will be eternally glad to recover my strength."

"You must remember, my friend, that it has only been two days since you were shot." Father Francisco explained. "You have recovered remarkably well in such a short time."

"I have you to thank for that," Zorro said, gratefully.

As Zorro settled into the carriage, the priest made sure the injured foot was well cushioned. "I think your stubbornness and determination had as much to do with it as my good food and experience in doctoring."

Father Francisco got in and started the mule at a slow pace until they were away from the mission. Then he increased the animal's speed to a fast trot when they reached the highway. The moon was bright enough to show any dangers in the road. "Your manservant came by not long after supper and brought some clothing he said you requested. Perhaps it would be best to make the change now. If we are stopped, it would be easier to explain the presence of Don Diego than Zorro. I also have a blanket, when you get tired."

The change was soon made, and the black shirt and mask were safely hidden behind the seat. Diego felt an almost tangible relief to finally be ridding himself of the costume, even temporarily. It had seemed to become a burden, heavier than any physical load he could have been carrying. At least now, if they were stopped, there would be no danger of Father Francisco explaining why he was with a wanted outlaw.

The mule's steady pace ate up the miles. At this time of night there were no other travelers on the King's Highway. The priest and his companion talked of many things, including the events at the hacienda of Paulo Wheeler. Father Francisco shook his head, sorrowfully, "Slavery in whatever form is a sickening thing. I, for one, am glad that you took action, but I am sorry that it has resulted in so much suffering for you."

"I have no regrets for what I did that night, either," Diego said, "The idea that this poor excuse for a hacendado would treat peons like slaves was totally repulsive to me. Still, I cannot help but think that perhaps added planning on my part may have prevented Señor Wheeler from still being free to bring more misery to others."

"What you say may be true, my son," Father Francisco responded, "but you know that nothing can be done to change that now." The pair lapsed into a troubled silence.

"Why not let me take the reins for a short time while you rest," Diego offered, after they had ridden awhile longer.

"Graciás, I think I will take you up on your offer," the priest said, "but do not hesitate to wake me if you begin to feel tired."

As the mules continued their mile eating pace, Diego enjoyed the cool breeze and the night sounds of the California wilderness more than he had in a long time. While he was still not master of the events transpiring around him, things didn't seem quite as grim as they had before. Somehow, Diego felt that Father Francisco was a factor in that feeling. Although he had dealings with the priest before, he didn't realize what a powerful presence the man had. If someone else had to find out the secret of El Zorro, Diego was glad it was the priest.

Several hours later, Father Francisco took the reins back from the caballero, whom he observed was definitely tiring. "How is the foot feeling?" he asked, noticing that an occasional spasm of pain crossed Diego'sface when they went over a rough spot on the road.

"A little sore, but otherwise not too bad," was the quickly answered reply.

"Having come to know you in the past day and a half, I think I can safely translate that to mean 'it is painful, but I will do all right,' " the cleric laughed softly. "There is a small flask of wine next to you on the seat. Drink a little. It will relax you and make the pain easier to take on this journey. We still have several hours before we get to our destination."

Diego knew the wine was doctored. "Father, I really would prefer to not make this journey drugged, if you please. The pain is not that bad."

"Ah, Diego, my son, I thought we had addressed that issue yesterday. But since I knew you would protest anyway, I made the potion stronger of wine than of narcotic. I think it will help you. Remember, my son, you promised to trust me."

Diego sighed and reached down for the bottle. "Father, I want you to know I am not happy about this, but you have not done anything but good for me, so I will trust you in this, too." Diego drank a little of the medicine-laced wine, and then drank a little more at the padre's insistence. After talking for a short while, he began to feel the dreamy, euphoric feeling that came from ingesting the narcotic. It wasn't long before Diego fell into a deep, relaxed sleep.

"I made the potion stronger of wine, but not much," the priest murmured, with a knowing smile. Two days earlier, he would never have dreamed of the events that had occurred since Lt. Lopez had brought the injured man into his care. Pondering, he was still amazed at what he had learned of Diego de la Vega. Playing the part of El Zorro was a dangerous tightrope to walk, but Diego had so far been able to do it with finesse. Father Francisco was determined to help him all he could to stay on that tightrope and not fall off.

About an hour before dawn, the priest's carriage pulled in front of the old gypsy woman's house. The house itself looked as though it had been cobbled together of many different materials at many different times. Señora Barosa peeked out of the door and then came out to greet the priest. The woman couldn't have been over five feet tall. She had long, thick gray hair, which was braided and hanging down her back. She also had a large smile for the padre, which showed a few missing teeth. Her face was creased with numerous wrinkles. Her eyes had the light of youthful laughter, even though she was considered ancient by most who knew her. "What brings you here this time of the morning to see old Madame Barosa?" she inquired bluntly of the priest.

Before Father Francisco could answer, her sharp eyes noticed that the priest was not alone. "And I suppose that whoever is with you is part of the explanation," she added tersely.

"Sí, Señora," the cleric answered, getting out of the carriage and tying the reins to a small sapling. "My friend will rest comfortably where he is for now. Let us go in and discuss this."

When they were inside, the priest began his explanation to her, which he had gone over with Diego earlier in the night. "Señora, I know how you feel about the Spanish landowners, but Diego de la Vega is a good man who needs the help of someone who is discreet and can be trusted explicitly."

"Well, at least he is harmless enough now," she chuckled. "Go on, priest, convince me that I should bring a hacendado into my house."

"It seems that young de la Vega has aroused the ire of another patrón. He needs an alibi for the last couple of days in order to keep his family from suffering any serious consequences from the event. It also seems that while he was escaping the wrath of the other patrón, he injured his foot and is somewhat incapacitated." Nothing that he said was exactly a lie, but he mentally made the sign of the cross in response to his half-truths. "I believe him when he told me that he was unjustly accused of something that was done by another, and you know that I am a pretty good judge of character."

"Well, of course I know you are a good judge of character," the woman quipped, "We are friends, are we not? As for this young patrón, what did you say his name was?"

"Diego de la Vega."

"I had heard of someone with that name who helped one of my relatives in the Pueblo de Los Angeles," the gypsy pondered. "I wonder if he is the same."

"I have no doubt of it, Señora," the priest answered with wry sarcasm. "He seems to have a great sense of justice for a patrón, and he is from Los Angeles."

"Do not tease me, Father," Senora Barosa replied. "Even I know that not all landowners and soldiers are arrogant and self-serving- just most of them. So this Diego de la Vega made eyes at some old goat's daughter, eh?"

"Now I did not say that," the priest laughed. "But it would be better for him if he had been in this vicinity for the past few days, if you know what I mean. And in all seriousness, we are not talking about something so frivolous, we are talking life and death. Will you help him, and, for that matter, me, too? I would be in a small bit of trouble from this other patrón for aiding Diego." _As well as from all of the soldiers and most of the politicos in the area,_ he thought.

Madame Barosa rubbed her chin and gazed sternly at him, then she turned away and paced the short length of her house, muttering to herself.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Day 7

"Sí, Father, I will help him," Madame Barosa assured the priest. "How long does he need to hide out here?"

"Only until one of his father's vaqueros 'happens' to find him. I have heard that Don Alejandro has sent men to this area to search for his son. Maybe a certain priest can hurry the process, especially since your house is somewhat remote." He got up to go check on the subject of all of the conversation. The eastern mountains were just showing hints of dawn.

The old woman went out with him. "By the way, Padre, how is he supposed to have injured his foot?"

"His horse spooked and stepped on it, breaking a bone," the Father answered, thinking of the additional lies he would have to repent of.

"I hope he is not too sensitive about his reputation with horses, then," the gypsy guffawed.

"Please, do not tease him about that, he already feels badly enough as it is," the priest warned her. "He was also stranded in the wilderness for several days, so he was not in very good shape when found. Diego is still weak and in need of plenty of rest, and if anyone questions why I am here, it is because you sent for me to set the broken bone."

Señora Barosa returned to her house to prepare a place for her guest to sleep. While Diego was still under the effects of the narcotic, Father Francisco changed the dressing. The early morning sun showed him that the wound was healing nicely, without any trace of infection.

The priest rewrapped the foot, adjusting the splints to make sure they fit right. As he was finishing the job, he felt his patient waking up. Diego sat up and frowned at the priest. By this time, Señora Barosa rejoined them.

"Oh, my aching head," Diego groaned, massaging his temples. "You lied to me, Father. That was **not** watered down."

"So this is Diego de la Vega," the woman said. "You should learn to stay out of trouble, boy. It keeps priests from lacing your wine." She let out a hearty laugh.

Diego peered at her, trying to get his eyes to focus properly. In his drug-fogged state, it took an extra minute or two to catch her joke. He saw a bemused expression on Father Francisco's face. Then he noticed the merry twinkle in the old woman's eyes. Finally, he understood what she had said and he laughed along with her. He thought he would enjoy staying with such a tart old woman. When Diego reached for the crutches, the priest grabbed him by one arm to steady him. The gypsy laid the crutches out of his reach and took his other arm as he slid down from the carriage. He had to lean on Father Francisco for a moment.

"I promise the light-headed feeling will pass as soon as you have had a chance to sleep off the potion." The priest took most of Diego's weight as they made their way into the house. The gypsy woman held the door open, and motioned to a pallet near the fireplace. Theyoung ranchero lay down gratefully as the old woman leaned the crutches near the fireplace.

Señora Barosa gave him a cup of watered down wine. "There you go, my fine caballero, this will help clear your head a little. You sleep, and when you awake you will feel much better."

"Graciás, señora." It wasn't long before he fell into a dreamless sleep.

"I should go soon," the priest said. "I will travel back by way of Santo Cristobel. The de la Vega vaqueros will be staying at the way station while searching." He glanced back at Diego, oblivious to their conversation. "And I am very appreciative to you for doing this for us. I have grown rather fond of Diego in the short time he has been in my care. I hope that you have no reason to regret giving this young man aid."

"If he gives me any trouble, I will give him one of my tongue-lashings, just like I did to my own boys when they were young and wild." As the priest drove away, Marlena Barosa wondered what young de la Vega had done for the priest to so staunchly champion him, even resorting to subterfuge to protect the young man.

It took a little more than an hour for Father Francisco to reach the inn at the way station. Most of the customers were just finishing up their breakfasts. The priest ordered a small meal and then asked the innkeeper if anyone from the Rancho de la Vega had been at the inn lately. He was told a vaquero might still be in the stable getting men ready to search for Don Diego.

Father Francisco finished his breakfast and went out to the stable. The vaquero and hired men had left on their search only a short while before. Father Francisco was not too alarmed, because Diego was in the good hands and a day either way would mean nothing in the plan they had hatched. The innkeeper agreed to let the priest rest in one of his unoccupied rooms until the men came back.

The insatiably curious innkeeper asked, "Father, why do you wait for the de la Vega vaquero? Do you have a message for him?"

"Sí, señor," the priest said enigmatically, "I know where young de la Vega is. Please let me know as soon as the vaquero returns." The cleric left the innkeeper gaping in surprise as he went to the room to sleep.

During the hottest hours of the afternoon, the men returned for a short siesta. The innkeeper scurried to inform the priest. As Father Francisco entered the dining area, Vasquez stood waiting, his hat crumpled in his hands. "Father, I have been told you have news of Don Diego?"

"Sí, my son," the priest answered. "He has been in the good care of a friend of mine. She asked me to come and set his broken foot. Don Diego was resting very comfortably when I left him early this morning. I will be happy to take you to Señora Barosa's house before it gets dark."

"Graciás, father," Vasquez replied, breathing a sigh of relief. "If it pleases you, let us go as soon as the horses have rested."

"Of course."

Diego woke up again at midmorning. The priest had been right, the dizziness was gone and all that was left was a great thirst. Señora Barosa fixed him breakfast. While he was eating, she brought him a mug of fresh spring water. Before he drank it, Diego peered intently into the cup.

"Eh, you think I would pull such a trick on a fine caballero as yourself?" she cackled in merriment. "There is nothing in that cup but good water God created for us to drink." Then she looked at him in mock solemnity. "Or do you caballeros not drink water in your haciendas?"

"Please, Señora, have mercy. I meant no insult, I just have no desire for any more drugged sleep. I have had enough of that to last the rest of my life." He noted the mischievous twinkle in her eye and knew she was teasing.

Diego reached for a nearby chair and slid it close. Perceiving what he had in mind, the old woman held the back of the chair to steady it for him. Gathering his left leg underneath him, and using his arms he pulled himself up from his pallet. "Graciás, Señora."

While he sat there, she cleaned up after his breakfast, swept her floor, strung chilies and hung them from the ceiling. She had gone out, presumably to a garden and come back with a bucket of beans. He was feeling guilty just sitting and watching. "Is there anything I could possibly do for you while I am sitting here?"

She frowned. "Now what would a rich landowner know about house cleaning and cooking?"

"Um, very little," Diego admitted, "but I do appreciate what you are doing for me and I thought I would at least offer." He paused, trying to gauge her reaction. Seeing no deep anger, he continued. "I have no idea if there might be something a clumsy caballero would be able to do, but I am willing to try."

Her countenance softened. "Don Diego, this is going to be a treat. I get to see a patrón shell beans." She set a bowl of semi-dried beans on the table next to him and a pot for the shelled beans to go in. The old woman showed him how to pull apart the pods. "Now, you had better do a good job, because these are going to make soup for our supper tonight. It will be your fault if there is not enough." Señora Barosa chuckled as she went about her other chores.

Diego wondered what he had gotten himself into. Some of the beans from the first pod scattered on the floor where an orange and white cat played with them, but he got the hang of it. After a short while they were all shelled. The old woman inspected the beans, added water and spices, and put the pot on a hook over the fire to cook. She was chuckling softly.

"Señora," Diego pleaded in mock anxiety, "Please do not tell anyone about this. It will be bad enough living down the broken foot. You do know the image we caballeros have to keep up." And he started laughing. The old woman joined him. "Señora Barosa, I would like to practice using my crutches, but I can't reach them. Could you get them, por favor?"

She did and then watched him out of the corner of her eye to make sure he didn't fall and hurt himself. As he went from one end of the room to the other, she saw him gain confidence. He tried using only one, while simply carrying the other. Marlena realized this was a man who could act in time of need with quick decisiveness. She wasn't sure how she knew this; she just did. Then she wondered how a man who appeared to be fairly agile could have allowed his horse to do so much damage. There was much more to this caballero than met the eye. She was surprised to find that she liked him, and wasn't just tolerating him for the priest's sake. After practicing for almost an hour, Diego returned to his seat.

While he was resting, she asked him about his family. That was something else that surprised her; she was actually asking a hacendadoabout his personal life. With great pride, he told her about his father, whom she could tell he respected and loved very much. The gypsy got the impression that most of his easy affability came from his father, even though, according to Diego, the elder de la Vega was fierier than the younger. His mother, he spoke of with sadness, as she had passed away when he was much younger. Surprisingly, he also spoke of a deaf-mute manservant like one would a compadre. When he had finished, he asked her about her family.

"My tale is that of all gypsies, Don Diego, that of woe and misery."

"But you are certainly not a person of woe and misery," he pointed out.

"We are talking about two different things, patron. The things that have happened to me, I did not choose. But the way I felt about those things or the way I reacted to them has been entirely up to me. In other words, I could have become bitter about the way my family has been treated. Of course, you know the stories of gypsy atrocities in Europe."

He nodded.

"On the other hand, I can be thankful for what I have and go about doing the best I can. I have a daughter and son-in-law and several sons and daughters-in-law scattered all over the area. I also have many fine and healthy grandchildren. Most of the time I feel a great joy in my heart."

"That is wonderful."

"Of course," Marlena continued with a hint of sarcasm, "Don't get me wrong. You have probably heard of my great love of soldiers and patróns. That comes from the death of my husband at the hands of a spiteful landowner. We had not been in California very long and were traveling from San Diego northward, when we stopped at a stream to camp for the night. The stream was on the property of a patrón who hated gypsies. He came out with his vaqueros _,_ and, when my husband, Augusto, tried to keep them from beating me, the pero had his men whip him almost to death. When I tried to help him, they beat me also. Augusto died the next day, after a night of agony in the back of our wagon, while the soldiers were escorting us from the area. I was not able to get a doctor willing to attend to my husband."

"I am truly sorry about your loss, Señora," Diego murmured.

She shook her head sadly. "That was a terrible time for my family. But we have not done too badly since we settled here. I have tried to teach my children that returning violence brings more violence. Apparently they learned that lesson well, because I have not had to bury any of them. There are prejudiced people wherever you go."

Well did Diego know that. "How did you find this place, Señora? It looks like you have been here a long time."

"Now Don Diego, not all gypsies live in wagons."

"That is not exactly what I meant, although the thought did cross my mind," he admitted.

"My people found a valley not too distant, which they settled and put in a claim for. Most of the gitano _,_ the gypsy people, live there, a few of us settled outside, like me. This house has been my home for over twenty years and I would not want to live anywhere else. I may be a sedentary gitano, but I still am Rom, still gypsy.

"I suppose few Californianos know your people are up here; maybe that is why you have had tranquility for this long," he mused.

Señora Barosa agreed.

Diego heard a noise outside. It was the sound of a lone horseman approaching.

Marlena peeked out the window, and smiled broadly. "My son, Hernando!" she beamed. "He is the youngest, and my most volatile, so be careful. He is more sensitive about the local Spanish landowners than I am."

Hernando came in, gave his mother a great bear hug, and when he noticed Diego, narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The woman introduced him simply as Diego. "He had problems with his horse out in the desert area. That is the cause of the broken foot and his stay with me."

His countenance changed abruptly. Hernando seemed to have the quick humor of his mother. "So, señor," he laughed, "you apparently do not have any gypsy blood in your veins. You realize gypsies have no trouble with their horses. A gypsy horse knows who is in charge."

"Perhaps that's what I lacked out in the wilderness. I never had any trouble from this horse before." He shrugged, "Well, what is done, is done."

Hernando turned back to his mother. "I wanted to come and see how you were doing. All kinds of troubles have come to my ears and I worry about you here alone."

While he was talking, Diego noticed that the man was only a couple of inches shorter than him, and perhaps five to ten years older. He had the broad-shouldered build of a blacksmith or someone who did a lot of work with his arms. His hair was dark brown and curly, but he noticed that Hernando's eyes were lighter in color than most Californianos. And they were very intense. This man could be a very good friend or a dangerous enemy. Diego had no desire to eavesdrop on a private conversation, so he excused himself to go outside and practice on the ever-present crutches.

"There is no need to leave, señor." Hernando told him, "This is general information and nothing of a private nature. In fact you might have heard of some of these events yourself."

Diego sat back down, and listened politely. It seemed a certain rancho had been raided up north by outlaws, and for a few days, soldiers and vaqueros had roamed the area from north of Santa Barbara almost to Los Angeles.

"Rumor said it was not a group of outlaws, but one man, El Zorro. And apparently Zorro has disappeared somewhere north of Los Angeles. There were also vaqueros and soldiers from the Pueblo de Los Angeles looking for the missing son of a wealthy landowner, whose horse had turned up near here."

As he spoke, Hernando had a sudden insight and looked intently at Diego, who could do nothing else, but placidly return the gaze. "Señor, would you be the son of a wealthy landowner who lives near Los Angeles?"

Diego got up to introduce himself. "Sí, señor," he answered, "I am Diego de la Vega, and your mother has been kind enough to put up with me since my accident until I am well enough to travel. She and Father Francisco are responsible for keeping me from death. I am very grateful. I do have a small idea of the sacrifice she made in doing so."

"Before you say anything, Hernando," Marlena interjected, "I have enjoyed the company of this caballero and he has not been the least bit offensive. So you had better not start anything with my guest."

Hernando gaped at his mother and then bowed to Diego. "My congratulations, patrón, you are the first of your class to receive that kind of endorsement from my mother." He grew more serious. "But my concern is not you, Don Diego, but those who are looking for you. Sometimes soldiers and vaqueros do not accept explanations from gitano."

"That is why I'm glad I have recovered enough to intervene if it becomes necessary," Diego assured the other man.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Night and Day 8

Shortly after the siesta, Señora Barosa finished cooking the afternoon meal and they all enjoyed a dinner of bean soup and tortillas. Diego expected the old woman to tease him about the beans, but she said nothing. As they were eating, they were interrupted by the sound of a carriage and horseman. Hernando was at the door in an instant. "A priest and a vaquero."

"Ah, that would probably be Father Francisco and a vaquero from the de la Vega rancho," the señora explained. "Make them welcome, my son."

"Don Diego, thank the three Marias you are all right!" Vasquez cried. "Your father has been worried sick about you."

"You are a sight for sore eyes," Diego replied. "I am very eager to get back home and have father tell me what an idiot I have been. Vasquez, I would like to introduce you to the person who has kept me alive these past days. This is Señora Barosa."

Vasquez bowed to the gypsy woman. "You cannot imagine Don Alejandro's gratitude in restoring his son to him." He noticed Diego's bound foot. "What in the world happened, patrón?" he asked.

"Tejas, was spooked by a snake, threw me and almost trampled me along with the rattler. It was very painful, but I have been assured if I follow directions, all that will remain is embarrassing memories."

"Don Alejandro is very anxious to see his son," Vasquez said. "How soon do you think Don Diego could travel, señora?"

"Ask the priest, he came and set the broken foot."

"I would say if we are cautious," Father Francisco considered. "We could set out anytime."

"Tonight," Diego declared, giving no one room to argue. "With Vasquez, we should have no trouble with anyone on the road, especially if we start out late enough. That is if you do not mind going to our rancho, Father Francisco."

By late evening all was in readiness. Vasquez had taken a short nap in anticipation of the night's journey, but Diego had been unable to. He paced back and forth in the main room of Señora Barosa's house, until she glared at him and made him sit down. Then she took the crutches away from him. "These things are dangerous in the hands of a caballero," she growled. "You would think you were going to your own execution!"

That thought had crossed Diego's mind. He really wasn't looking for another confrontation with Wheeler, but he felt it would come to that. And at present, he had no idea how he was going to handle it when it happened.

Finally the time came to leave; the moon was just ready to rise over the hills. Señora Barosa walked over to Diego. "Young man, if your father is half the man you are, someday I would like to meet him. If anyone comes after you, make sure you clout them with those big sticks of yours. I have seen you practicing with them and I know what you can do." She surprised Diego by giving him a motherly hug, which he reciprocated.

"Graciás, Señora," he said, his voice husky, "That is the kindest compliment anyone could receive. And we will come and visit when my foot is healed." He paused, wondering why, in such a short time, he could become so close to this woman. "I appreciate all you have done for me, Señora Barosa."

Using the crutches for balance, Diego hopped up into the carriage, next to Father Francisco. The small group then started out for the Pueblo de Los Angeles. "Diego, my son," the astonished priest asked, "what in the world did you do to change that crusty old woman?"

"I shelled beans for her," Diego answered enigmatically. He leaned back to rest, and this time he was able to fall asleep.

It was an uneventful journey. Vasquez most often rode next to the carriage, but occasionally went ahead to check out the road. The moon and stars wheeled their way across the night sky as the hours passed by.

About halfway into the journey, Diego woke up and offered to drive the carriage in order for Father Francisco to rest. The priest was soon sleeping and Diego was left to his own thoughts. Uppermost in his mind was the idea that the matter with Paulo Wheeler was far from resolved. That was a source of great frustration to him. He wanted to stop the man before he caused more death and misery.

Diego was still driving when dawn pushed rosy fingers over the eastern hills. They had just reached the boundary of the de la Vega lands and would soon arrive at the hacienda. Vasquez had ridden ahead to alert Don Alejandro. As the carriage went over the last hill before reaching the casa grande, the sun made a glorious entrance, illuminating several figures waiting outside the gate. Diego pulled the mule to a stop and slid out to warm embrace of his anxious father. "My son, I am so glad you made it home. I was so worried."

"Father, never has a place looked so wonderful as this hacienda. It is good to be home at last." Father Francisco handed him his crutches, and he started for the gate. Bernardo was waiting with the gate open, smiling broadly. Diego paused, grabbed him by the arm and grinned back. He cautiously negotiated his way into the house and sat down.

"Now I really feel like I'm home," he sighed. He motioned to Bernardo to get him something to drink, and then propped his leg up on the crutches. Alejandro and Father Francisco had also taken seats.

"Father, before you say anything about stupidity not running in the de la Vega blood-line, please let me tell you in front of the good Padre, that I was an idiot to travel from Monterey alone. However, I had no trouble until I went on my little side trip," Diego said. "I also hope my little adventure does not gain everyone in this room the gallows."

Alejandro looked at his son in alarm, knowing where this conversation was going. Diego motioned to Bernardo to make sure that none of the other servants were within hearing of their meeting. Bernardo did so and then stationed himself near the door.

"I believe Señor Paulo Wheeler is suspicious of me," Diego continued. "And he is vindictive enough to follow his vendetta through to the end." Diego realized Bernardo had neglected to tell his father everything that had happened in the mission. "Father Francisco knows about Zorro, Father, and will keep his knowledge secret."

"We could ask for guards," Alejandro offered, and then shook his head. "Estupido! No, we couldn't. What would we say? 'Lt. Lopez, we need guards at the hacienda. Why? Oh, because Don Paulo thinks my son is Zorro.' " He shook his head. "Do you have any ideas, Diego?"

"Yes, I have one. I am sure Wheeler is still in Los Angeles, deciding when it would be best to act. While he is doing that, we can attempt to set the slow wheels of justice moving." As Bernardo served everybody a glass of wine, Diego signed a request for him to get some writing materials from the library.

"What do you have in mind, Diego?" Alejandro queried.

Diego steepled his hands and began his story. "Well, Father, when I was coming south from Monterey, I met a peon, who told me about a rancho from which he had recently escaped, where all of the workers were held as slaves. Never paid and never allowed to leave. Now, before I could report that blatant disregard of the law, I had my unfortunate accident in the wilderness. Now that I am home, I can send a message through Lt. Lopez to the garrison at Santa Barbara. If Señor Wheeler stays occupied keeping an eye on me, perhaps there will be time for a warrant to be issued, and this devil will be in jail where he cannot enslave anyone else. Whatever it takes, we must do all that is morally right to make sure this devil cannot put any other human through the pain and suffering he put those peons through." There was a short period of silence as everyone pondered the situation. It was broken when Bernardo brought in the paper and ink. Diego began composing his note to Lt. Lopez.

"I will come out to your hacienda each day to make sure your foot is healing all right." Father Francisco broke the silence. "I am not a fighter, but my presence might be a deterrent."

"I have no plans to go anywhere. The dons can conduct their meetings without me for once," Alejandro said grimly. "That should help deter an unwelcome visit."

Diego looked up from his writing. It wouldn't help matters to express aloud his sentiment that nothing would deter Wheeler. And he wouldn't let them know about his irritation at having those around him discuss plans to protect him. "We will just have to wait and keep vigilant," he did say. "Father Francisco, I am a very poor host to the one who has risked so much to save my life. Would you like breakfast?"

"No, Diego, I must get back to the Mission. I have been away too long. I will pray for help in this matter, however. May God watch over you all."

Diego started to lean over his paper again and then looked up, his face deeply troubled. "Father, if my secret is revealed, you know what will happen. These lands will be confiscated, but most importantly the de la Vega name will be dishonored and you would probably be sent to the gallows as an accomplice." He turned to Bernardo. "And you would, too. Your deaths would cause me more grief than my own capture would."

"The name will never be dishonored, my son, not to those who believe in justice," Alejandro said vehemently. "Take heart, Diego, something good will happen. But you are tired. I have had the servants prepare the guestroom for you. That will be better than trying to negotiate the stairs to your own room."

Diego finished the letter and sent Bernardo and another servant into the pueblo to deliver it. Bernardo was able to report that Lt. Lopez had taken Don Diego's report very seriously and had sent a lancer to Santa Barbara even before the manservant had left the pueblo. Diego felt a small measure of satisfaction.

The young vaquero, José, reported the arrival of Diego de la Vega at his hacienda. Wheeler waited for the rest of the report. "It is as you thought; he has been injured. At least he was on crutches."

"Yes," his breath hissed like some giant snake's. "I knew it; we have him. I will kill the fox in its den, and ruin his whole family while I am at it." He laughed long and loud. "What is the story that is being spread as to the injured foot?"

"It was reported that young de la Vega's horse was spooked by something in the desert and kicked him or stepped on him breaking bones in his foot," the vaquero replied.

"That is a good story; fitting with the other things that are told about the de la Vega heir."

José waited nervously for his next instructions. He was unsure about the sanity of his employer, but he was not going to voice those concerns, at least not in his patrón's presence.

"Do they keep a lot of servants?" Wheeler asked.

"No, Don Paulo," he answered. "There are perhaps three or four in the house who cook and clean, plus a deaf-mute manservant."

"Good, good," Wheeler gloated. "I want you to watch the de la Vega hacienda. Come get me whenever you see Alejandro de la Vega leave. The others should not be a problem. If we need to, we will kill them, and then we will take care of El Zorro. Do you understand?"

"Sí, Don Paulo, but it seems unfair to kill an injured man."

With a cry of rage, Wheeler struck the vaquero with his open hand. "Never question my actions again, do you understand?! I will dispose of Zorro! Do you understand me?"

"Sí, Don Paulo," the vaquero answered meekly, rubbing his cheek.

"Now get out there," Wheeler hissed.

José left very quickly.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Next Seven Days

Two days following Don Diego's return, when Bernardo went upstairs to straighten his patrón's room, he was astonished to see Diego dozing on his own bed. Awakened by the mozo's entrance, the young man sat up.

"I have been able to get up here since yesterday," he answered Bernardo's query. "I have been practicing getting around the hacienda since I came home. The only place I have not been yet is the secret cave, and I plan to do that soon." Seeing Bernardo's alarmed look, he went on, "You have to understand, Bernardo, Paulo Wheeler has every intention of killing me. He knows I am Zorro. I have to be ready when he comes. I have been working on gaining as much mobility as I can. I plan on continuing that. The best thing you can do is not interfere." Diego saw Bernardo's slightly hurt look. "What I mean by that, is do not try to stop me from going anywhere. Or fuss at me about my activities. Bernardo, Señor Wheeler is very clever and will find a way to come when we least expect. You and Father will not always be around, no matter how hard you try. I have to defend myself and hopefully defeat him."

Bernardo nodded, having thought about that, too.

"Later, when I am able to go to the secret cave, I want you to train with me. There are a few things I thought I was proficient enough to do in my sleep. Now I have to learn to do them on crutches. I need your help."

Bernardo signed his willingness to help.

A week had passed since he came home, and Diego was at full strength, except, of course, for the foot. He had felt an increased urgency to push himself to the limit of his abilities. Diego felt blessed by providence to have all of this time to prepare, but had no illusions it would last forever. There was no place in the hacienda he could not get to, including the secret cave.

The one thing Diego had been unable to master to his satisfaction, was getting up quickly from the ground. If he had something to hang on to, Diego was up in an instant. However, if he tried to get up directly from the ground without anything to help him, he was awkward and slow. Diego decided to make sure he wasn't knocked down. Bernardo found Don Diego's increased agility amazing, but agreed with his patrón's conclusions.

Diego practiced fencing. He was able to hold his own with Bernardo, even though the inability to advance and retreat adeptly was frustrating. The most difficult aspect was the realization he could not lead off with his right foot. But once he compensated, Diego was pleased that he could use the epée while on a crutch.

Since their conversation, Bernardo noticed the greater ease with which his patron got around the casa grande. He also couldn't help but notice how much more strength Don Diego had in his upper body. Seven days after his return, he found Don Diego in the secret room going through a trunk. The caballero pulled out a whip and hung it over his shoulder.

His only comment was, "Whips have a long reach and are not dependant on two good feet for their use. Father helped me practice with the bolas. Shall we go down and see Tornado?"

Diego started down the narrow staircase with ease, avoiding cracks and holes in the stone steps. Bernardo brought the lantern. He queried how Diego could get down the steps and carry a lantern at the same time.

"Came down on one crutch."

Bernardo signed about asking silly questions.

Diego chuckled and greeted the big black stallion, which was snorting a greeting. Diego let the horse lip his fingers, knowing Tornado would never use his teeth. The stallion nuzzled Diego's chest and then gave him a great push. The caballero lost his balance and ended up flat on his back looking up at Bernardo's concerned face. "I bruised my posterior and pride, nothing more."

Bernardo reached out to help Don Diego.

Diego gave Tornado a long, hard stare. The stallion just snorted. "Bernardo, if I didn't know better, I'd think he's laughing at me. He must be trying to keep me humble." Diego spent the next half-hour brushing the black stallion. It was a good tension reliever, and he only stopped when he heard the voice of his father. "In here, Father," Diego called out.

His father came into the light of Bernardo's lantern and stared in amazement. "How, in the name of all the Saints did you get down here?" he asked incredulously.

"Very carefully, Father. I have been practicing."

"I can see that," the elder de la Vega commented dryly. "Father Francisco is here to check your foot."

"Tell him I will be right there, por favor." Diego handed the brush to Bernardo and then started back up the stairs. The journey up was no more difficult than the trip down.

Diego decided to show off. He went all the way up the steps to his room, through the secret doorway and then through his room to the balcony. Leaning over the balustrade, Diego greeted the priest. "Hola, Padre. I will be down in an instant." With no hesitation, Diego made good his promise and was soon standing before the startled cleric.

Father Francisco shook his head. "I can see what you have been doing with your time. Let me look at your foot. Let's see if I need to give you one of Senora Barosa's tongue-lashings." After removing the wrappings, he felt gently to get an idea of the placement of the bones.

Diego winced slightly. "It only hurts a bit when you do that now," he told the priest. Father Francisco rewrapped the foot with clean bandages. "Well, how much longer, Father?" he asked, hopefully.

"Diego, my son, you must be patient," he admonished the young man. "Bones take time to heal, especially bones in the foot. I explained that to you before."

"Father Francisco, I know you did, but you still have not answered my question."

"Well, I am happy to say that all of your boyish risk-taking has done no damage," the priest answered him happily. "But I would say we are still talking almost five weeks."

Diego groaned.

"As long as you are careful, I think the exercise has been good for your recovery. Oh, and please realize that when I think the bone has healed, you have to work back to normal activities very gradually. The muscles in that leg will be weakened. If you follow my instructions, you will be able to do most of your normal activities in six weeks."

Diego stared at the priest. Father Francisco had shortened his convalescence from his initial pronouncement, but five more weeks seemed an eternity. "Padre," Diego said in mock solemnity, "you really know how to cheer a person up."

The priest couldn't help but laugh. "Somehow, my son, I knew this bit of information would please you. Just remember, if you do anything foolish, it will affect you the rest of your life."

Diego nodded in agreement. He understood; it just didn't make him any happier.

Father Francisco continued, "I will return in the morning to check on your progress."

It was the eighth morning of surveillance when Paulo Wheeler decided to finish what he had come to Los Angeles to do. He was tired of the vaquero reporting no progress to him each evening. He felt José's heart was not in this work. If he didn't need him so badly, Wheeler would have been rid of him a long time ago. So on a bright, cloudless morning, he rode out with José and an itinerant vaquero to the vantage point above the hacienda. They settled themselves in comfortable positions, but after a couple of hours Wheeler saw his chance.

Don Alejandro rode away from the hacienda with a vaquero. Before he and José could venture down, though, a priest arrived. Wheeler waited impatiently for a while, but when the priest didn't leave, he decided they could take care of the cleric and then young de la Vega. "Let us go and finish what should have been done a long time ago," he growled.

They rode their horses slowly as to not make too much noise. Dismounting in front of the hacienda, they entered through the front gate and saw young de la Vega sitting on the patio, reading, his leg propped up on a crutch. No one else was in sight. Diego looked up calmly. "Señores, what a pleasant surprise! I know I have seen the one vaquerobefore," he said, pointing to José, "but I have not had the pleasure of meeting you, Señor. Would you care to sit down? As soon as my manservant returns, I will order refreshments for us all. A proper California greeting," he bantered amiably.

"Diego de la Vega, I presume," Wheeler said smoothly, "Yes, you met my vaquero, José, near my hacienda, some days ago."

For his part, Diego had no choice but to play this word game with Wheeler and see where he was going to go with it. Nodding to the young vaquero, he said, "Sí, Señor, we met on the trail." The vaquero looked nervous, as though he was not happy to be here. Diego wasn't happy he was here either. "And you, Señor? You are?"

"Actually Don Diego, we have met before also, except at that time you were in a black costume burning down my property. I really did not appreciative of that." Wheeler noticed that the hacendado didn't even flinch.

"Señor," Diego replied coolly, "I do not like your implications. I am trying to understand why you would think a landowner such as myself would burn down someone else's property." Diego watched Wheeler carefully for signs of impending loss of temper; that's when he would be most dangerous. "But of course, it is just a simple mistake in identity. Sit down, señores; make yourselves comfortable. Let us talk of more pleasant things."

"Do not play word games with me, Don Diego, or rather, should I call you Zorro?"

Diego laughed. "You flatter me greatly, Señor. Zorro is considered by many to be a hero around this area, a man of great prowess and daring. I have neither and am no hero." _Now will_ _come his display of evidence_.

"Come now, de la Vega," Wheeler began, "I shot Zorro in the leg or foot and there you sit with an injured foot. The right foot, too. You were also seen in the vicinity of my hacienda just before the arrival of El Zorro."

"A coincidence, nothing more, Señor." Diego saw Wheeler's face begin to redden, and he tensed for the big fight, however short it might be. "Please, enough of these unpleasantries. Again I ask you; sit down and relax. We will enjoy a glass of de la Vega wine together."

"You are Zorro!" Wheeler screamed, slamming his fist on the wooden table where Diego sat.

The caballero feigned surprise and grabbed his crutches from under his propped leg, quickly turning one around under the table where the move couldn't be seen.

Wheeler was screaming again. "Admit it, tell me you are Zorro! Tell me!"

"How can I admit to something that is impossible for me to admit to?"

"This has gone far enough!" Wheeler pulled his pistol from inside his belt and pointed it at Diego, pulling back the hammer as he did so.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Conclusion

When Wheeler raised his pistol, Diego leaned forward. He reached under the table with one crutch, jerking Wheeler's legs out from under him. As Wheeler fell backwards, the pistol discharged harmlessly into the air. Diego leaned the crutches against his leg and in one smooth motion pulled the whip out from under the table. It snapped the nearer vaquero's wrist causing his pistol to discharge into the ground. Diego pushed the table towards his attackers, knocking them down again. Wheeler jumped up cursing, and drew his sword. José had a taste of the whip as Diego dumped him on the ground.

"You may have a few tricks, El Zorro, but I will kill you in the end." Wheeler shrieked.

"Perhaps you may, Señor, but you will learn the hard way that you have bested a de la Vega." Diego plied the whip against his assailant's ankles and dropped Wheeler to the ground yet again. Then he saw one of the vaqueros slinking behind him. Diego snapped the whip to force him away, but this time the vaquero was ready for him. He grabbed the end of the whip in a tight enough grip to pull the hacendado to the ground if he hung on. Diego let go.

He snatched his crutches and backed up against one of the posts holding the balustrade. Diego attempted one last protest. "I wish I could convince you that I am not Zorro."

"You are a lying dog, Señor Zorro!" Wheeler cried and advanced, his sword ready.

The vaquero snapped the confiscated whip against his left leg, and Diego bit back a cry. He reached back for a set of bolas hanging from a peg. Stepping away from the pillar he began to swing them in perfect rhythm. As the vaquero plied the whip again, Diego let the bolas fly. They wrapped around the man's head several times, finally dropping him like a stone.

Diego was tempted to try and retrieve the whip, but saw José anticipating the move. Wheeler lunged at him and Diego used his crutch as a staff, hitting him in the solar plexus. Wheeler fell, gasping for breath. Diego moved away, watching José, who unsheathed a sword. He stopped when he felt another column against his back.

Groping around the back, Diego felt the handle of the sword that was left there just this morning after practicing with Bernardo. At that moment, José came at him. A glance showed that Wheeler had regained his breath and was advancing from his right. He threw a crutch along the flagstones of the patio. It skittered against José's ankles, causing him to fall. His sword flew out of his hands and slid behind Diego. Now Diego could concentrate on Wheeler.

Leaning slightly on the remaining crutch, he parried Wheeler's thrusts and made short advances of his own. For a moment, Diego thought he might be able to hold his own against this madman. Then Wheeler lunged close and slashed at him, forcing Diego to jump back. He hit the column with enough force to disorient him. In an instant, Wheeler reached in with his weapon and jerked the sword out of his hand, forcing Diego to revert to the crutch as a defensive weapon. After what seemed an interminably long time of the holding off the angry hacendado, he realized his adversary would be able to wear him down soon, despite all of the rigorous training he had put himself through. Still, Diego couldn't withhold a grin of pleasure. He had held his own against three people.

"José, you fool, come help me," Don Paulo shouted. José was watching from where he had fallen. The vaquero slowly got up and approached the dueling pair.

Wheeler lunged again and this time Diego went down, trying to avoid the point of the sword. The madman was on him immediately. Diego used the crutch again, throwing Wheeler backwards. Adrenalin provided extra strength to his arms and good leg, and Diego was able to pull himself up in time to meet José's attack. Feeling the pillar against his left shoulder, he leaned against it as José came at him. The vaquero threw a solid punch, intending to connect with his jaw, but Diego anticipated his move and ducked. José screamed as his fist slammed against the hard wood pillar, snapping bones. As the vaquero sank to the ground in agony, Wheeler threw a punch of his own, knocking Diego to the ground again.

Standing over him with his sword ready for the kill, Wheeler laughed insanely. "Only Zorro could have continued to fight against me like this. But as you see, in the end I am going to kill Zorro."

Unless something happened to change the situation, Diego knew Wheeler was right. Remotely, Diego felt the end of one of his crutches against the back of his head, but knew he would not be able to reach for and use it before the sword point was thrust into his body. Then Diego was startled by a voice from the stairway.

"Stop, Señor Wheeler, or I will be forced to shoot you." Wheeler looked up and he glanced up too. What he saw astonished him, because he was looking at Zorro. It was like looking at himself. Apparently, Wheeler couldn't believe it either.

"No, it can't be true," Wheeler stammered. "It is a trick! I will not be cheated!"

He turned back to Diego, who had just a few seconds to prepare for the next attack. A few seconds was all he needed to finish this. He remembered Señora Barosa's admonition about using 'the big sticks.' Reaching back and grabbing the crutch, Diego thrust it under Wheeler's jaw and shoved. The hacendado was again thrown off balance, but Wheeler didn't just fall down as before. Diego had miscalculated his strength, and the impetus of the blow threw his enemy against a rock planter in the middle of the patio. Wheeler sank limply to the flagstones. All of the adrenaline sustaining him during the fight with Wheeler and the vaqueros was gone. Diego didn't have the strength to get up without help, so he sat on the hard ground assimilating the fact he had actually survived this.

By this time, Zorro had reached him. "Are you all right, Don Diego?" Zorro asked him in concern. Staring wide-eyed at the outlaw who was supposed to be himself, all he could do was nod, not believing what he was seeing. The gate burst open and Lt. Lopez, Sgt. Garcia, Alejandro and several lancers dashed into the patio.

Alejandro's jaw dropped when he saw his son and Zorro next to each other. Lt. Lopez, too, was slack-jawed, because he had not thought Zorro could have recovered that quickly. The outlaw bowled a lancer to the ground as he rushed out the gate and disappeared around the corner of the hacienda. Diego stared at the gate.

Alejandro asked Diego the same question Zorro had. This time the younger de la Vega found his voice. "Sí, father, I am fine, thanks to Zorro," he stammered, and then he started to laugh. He continued to laugh until the tears ran down his cheeks.

Lt. Lopez looked nervously at Don Diego and wondered if this confrontation had unsettled the young man's mind.

Alejandro sent Corporal Reyes into the hacienda to get some wine, and Diego composed himself enough to ask Sgt. Lopez for a hand getting up. His father pulled a chair over, and Diego surveyed the scene.

Sgt. Garcia checked Paulo Wheeler.

"Is he dead?" Diego asked.

"Sí, Don Diego," Garcia said, his eyes large in disbelief.

A lancer handed Diego some wine, which he took gratefully. "I cannot believe I did this. I did not mean to kill him. I only meant to keep him away," he murmured, "I can't believe I'm still alive."

"But I thought you said Zorro saved you?" Sgt. Lopez asked.

"He did, Lieutenant," Diego answered in bemusement. "He distracted Wheeler enough so I could use my crutch like a staff and shove him away."

Corporal Reyes looked at Diego in open amazement. "You mean, Don Diego that you fought against all of them by yourself, and with an injured foot?"

"No, no, Corporal, Zorro helped me, but I was very lucky, too," Diego explained. "It was a lucky thing I let Bernardo teach me how to use a whip, and lucky it happened to be sitting near the table. It was also luck that Zorro showed up when he did."

"I would argue with you on that one, my son," Father Francisco said from the door of the sala, "I think it was God who guided you and Zorro against that madman and his men. I hope you are all right. Bernardo had taken me to the cellar to get some wine for the mission. We didn't even know what was going on until it was all over." For some reason the priest looked a bit flushed.

"By the way, Lt. Lopez, what brought you out here at a most fortuitous time?" Diego asked.

"I was on my way here because a messenger arrived this morning from Santa Barbara with orders to arrest Paulo Wheeler for slavery and murder," Lopez explained. "I also received information his vaquero was very interested in your activities. When I was told Wheeler had ridden out of the pueblo this morning in the direction of your hacienda, I felt your lives might be in danger. I met Don Alejandro on the way, and we all rode back together. It seems you and Zorro had things well in hand."

Father Francisco made a hasty examination of Diego's foot without taking off the bandage. The priest got up with a satisfied look on his face. "Señora Barosa was right," he declared, "Beware of caballeros with crutches. I will try not to make you angry the next few weeks."

"Father, I would never do anything to you. But I had to stop him. There was nothing I could say to convince him not to kill me. He just about succeeded. If Zorro had not shown up when he did, Wheeler would have won. Zorro saved me.…" Diego's voice trailed off.

Lt. Lopez got up. "Don Alejandro, if you will excuse us, we shall take the dead man and the prisoners back to the pueblo." He instructed the lancers to tie the body of Paulo Wheeler onto his horse.

Father Francisco checked the vaqueros and bandaged their wounds."They will need to be taken to the pueblo in a carriage," he announced. "Don Alejandro, would you mind the lancers borrowing one of your carriages?"

"No, of course not, just get them out of here," Alejandro said vehemently. "When they wake up, please tell them they should think twice before taking on a member of my family again." He grinned at Diego. "Oh, and Lt. Lopez," Alejandro added, "Take one of the servants, so he can bring back my carriage."

Lopez nodded his thanks and left. While the lancers carried the injured vaqueros out to the carriage, Alejandro and Father Francisco made small talk. Diego was speechless, still trying to assimilate what had happened.

"Many pardons, Señores," Sgt. Garcia said a bit later, "but we will be leaving now, with your permission."

"Yes, Sergeant, go ahead," Alejandro said. "Thank you for all your help in this matter."

After the lancers left, Don Alejandro signed to Bernardo to make sure the little group wasn't overheard. When the mozo gave an all clear sign, the old caballero said, "There goes Lt. Lopez, a man who now knows Diego is not Zorro, though I imagine he is puzzled as to Zorro's quick recovery." Pausing a moment, he then continued more seriously. "I know Diego was as shocked by the appearance of Zorro as I was, but by the Saints, can anyone explain what happened?"

Bernardo had a knowing smile on his face, and Father Francisco coughed in embarrassment.

"It was you!" Diego exclaimed. He signed to Bernardo. "And you were in on it, too." Bernardo nodded. "Father Francisco, you were willing to kill Wheeler to save me? I appreciate that more than you could ever know."

"I heard Señor Wheeler come in with his hired vaqueros," the priest explained, "I knew we had to have more than just our hands to fight this evil monster. I made Bernardo understand that we needed the weapons of Zorro to use against Wheeler. He took me through the hidden door of the sala and up to a secret room. That was when it struck me if Wheeler saw Zorro and Diego in the same place he would give up his quest of vengeance against Diego." He sighed. "I had no idea of the unhinged state of his mind. We were able to listen to most of what was going on through the open door while I prepared. Bernardo and I were afraid we would be too late when we heard him screaming. I doubt even you have changed into the costume as quickly as I did- with Bernardo's help, of course. We almost had apoplexy when we heard the pistol shots. When I came out of your room and I started down the stairs, I almost did not say anything. In fact, I didn't think you were going to need my help until he had you on the ground. To use a chess term, you were almost in checkmate."

"I **was** in checkmate, Father," Diego said and then did a double take. "You mean that you watched some of that and . . . and….?!"

"Diego, my son, you were magnificent!" Father Francisco exclaimed. "I was ready to use the pistol if necessary. Whether you consciously realized it or not, Diego, I knew you wanted to bring this to a conclusion yourself." The priest sat back, satisfied. "Now I know why you have succeeded in this clandestine business of yours. By the way, there was also your identity to protect. Bernardo saw the arrival of Lt. Lopez, and I knew having Zorro here with you would dispel speculations about you and Zorro being the same person."

"Father Francisco, there is nothing wrong with your analysis," Diego admitted. "And I am grateful for your intervention."

"God led this battle, just as he has led the battle for justice during your years of service."

Bernardo brought out a tray with glasses of wine for everybody.

Father Francisco took one. "I propose a toast," he said, "To Diego de la Vega."

"To Diego, my son," added Alejandro proudly.

Diego blushed in embarrassment.

Bernardo raised his glass, and made the sign of a " _Z"_.

Diego laughed heartily, "To Zorro then, whoever he may be at the moment." And everyone raised their glasses to El Zorro, the fox.

El Fin


End file.
